


Patron

by Starfox5



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Triwizard Tournament, Alternate Universe, F/M, Good Dumbledore, Magical Bulgaria, Magical France, Magical Jamaica, Magical Scandinavia, Strategic Voldemort, War, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 61
Words: 527,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starfox5/pseuds/Starfox5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an Alternate Universe where muggleborns are a tiny minority and stuck as third-class citizens, formally aligning herself with her best friend, the famous Boy-Who-Lived, seemed a good idea. It did a lot to help Hermione's status in the exotic society of a fantastic world so very different from her own. And it allowed both of them to fight for a better life and better Britain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Train to another World

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters in the Harry Potter books or movies.
> 
> I'd like to thank thekingofsweden1, rpeh and brianna-xox for beta reading. Their work and diligence has improved the story a lot.
> 
> This story is set in an Alternate Universe, and while the basic setting of Harry Potter remains (Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, 7 years, post owls, brooms, wands, apparition, Voldemort's war in the 1970s, Dumbledore fighting Grindelwald etc.), the Magical Society is quite different from canon. It's not "Victorian England plus Magic", it's (an attempt at) a society that divorced itself from the mundane world for hundreds of years, and has formed (or preserved) their own customs and culture. Some almost archaic, some so liberal it makes modern western society look very conservative.
> 
> Further, a number of characters will act very differently. I dislike supposedly intelligent characters making plans that only work out because of blind luck and plot-induced stupidity for their opponents, so things will not turn out the same as in canon. Already haven't turned out the same as in canon, seeing as it starts in year 4.
> 
> It will have a number of tropes that are controversial. Magical Oaths are a thing, though they are not something you do in the spur of a moment, but restricted to a few rituals. Wards exist since the idea that you can simply apparate into and out of any wizard house but for Hogwarts and Gringotts does not sound feasible. Magic Society is different, and more fantastical, but it's not a democracy. Wizengamot seats are appointed or hereditary, not elected.
> 
> The story is told from various subjective point of views. Just because one character thinks something is true doesn't make it true - that goes for Hermione and Harry as well as for Dumbledore. 
> 
> Finally, Dumbledore not wishing to make a 11-year-old boy the legal guardian of a 12-year-old girl doesn't make him evil or manipulative. It makes him a responsible adult having to deal with laws and custom not meant for that situation.

** **

**Chapter 1: On the Train to another World**

Another September 1st, Hermione Granger thought, standing in front of a compartment of the Hogwarts Express. She was wearing her school robe already, the one for the students up to and including 5th year. Black, conservatively cut - even for muggles - and sporting a badge on her heart with the colors of Gryffindor, her house at school. The robe looked mundane, but it was heavily charmed, actually floating mere millimeters above her skin and kept at 22 degrees Celsius no matter the actual temperature around her. The fabric was resistant to wear and tear, and repelled most fluids as well. Hermione doubted any other 4th year student could have cast such spells, much less enchanted a robe, but her pride in her work was muted by the need to hide her achievements. It would not do for a muggleborn, much less a true muggleborn, to show up the pureblood students. Even or especially those wearing robes bought and charmed at Madam Malkin’s. They wouldn’t do anything overtly, of course, but she had enough enemies already. Making more out of pride would be a mistake she wouldn’t repeat.

The young witch reached up to touch her necklace. Or more precisely, her torc. Celtic style, pure gold, enchanted of course, showing the Potter crest on one of the pendants between her collarbones, indicating her status as a retainer of the Head of the Potter Family. Which consisted currently, and for the foreseeable future, of herself, and her Patron, Harry Potter. An orphaned boy and a muggleborn girl. No home, ancestral or otherwise. No real estate. No fortune - after buying that torc in their first year Harry had just a bit more than needed to cover his and her remaining education at Hogwarts. And no pureblood ancestry dating back to the Founders. It would be a joke of a family, if not for Harry being famous as the Boy-Who-Lived and the Slayer of Slytherin’s Monster.

The first had been achieved by Harry alone. Defeating the worst Dark Lord Wizarding Britain had seen in a long time as a toddler had earned him that title as well as the approval of the Wizengamot for his posthumous adoption by his father, James Potter. If not for that Harry would have legally been the muggleborn Harry Evans. The second title though… that should have been hers as well. Hermione scoffed. Would have, if not for the circumstances of her birth.

Students passed her, most of them nodding at her, receiving a nod in return. Some ignored her, of course. Most of those were wearing the green colors of House Slytherin. Beatrice Wells, Gryffindor 6th year, stopped and smiled. “Hello Hermione.”

“Hello Beatrice. Did you have a nice vacation?”

“Oh, yes. My family went to Spain, Barcelona.” The older girl smiled. She was wearing the open robes of the 6th and 7th years over a shimmering red and black dress that seemed to slowly flow around her. Hermione recognized it from the display in Madam Malkin’s she had seen on her last visit to Diagon Alley. It was the least expensive of the dresses there, though by no means cheap. Simple and very modest, for Wizarding Britain - it covered her from neck to knees. Hermione had expected that, since Wells was another “true muggleborn”, as those wizards and witches born to muggle parents were called. One of only four currently at Hogwarts, including Hermione herself. The dresses, if one could call those elaborate magical constructs by such a normal word, some of the pureblood girls of the 6th and 7th years wore under their open robes would turn heads even in the most liberal muggle nightclubs or on the catwalk in Paris.

“Nice. We went to France again. Burgundy this time.” Hermione wondered if her and Wells being ‘true muggleborn’ would make those muggleborns born to magical parents ‘fake muggleborns’. It would fit them, she thought, since they were usually as isolated from the muggle world as the half-bloods and purebloods were. The two girls chatted about their vacations a bit more, then Wells went off to find a compartment of her own. Hermione remained standing there, waiting.

More students passed her. Among them was Draco Malfoy, in a robe made of green spider silk, overloaded with gold and jewels, gleaming with enchantments that formed and reformed his family’s heraldry on his chest. Another work by Madam Malkin’s. The boy was sneering at her. A year ago he’d have insulted her. Had insulted her in fact. Now, with Harry’s godfather exonerated and confirmed as Head of the Black Family, Draco apparently had learned some discretion. Hermione didn’t think it would last.

She felt her torc grow a bit warmer, the enchantment informing her that Harry was nearby. Turning her head she spotted him entering the carriage and felt the familiar burst of happiness at seeing him. He was clad in a red and black robe that seemed to shine with protective spells woven into the fabric. Professional work, better than her own spells, if not as customized. Sirius hadn’t skimped after the incident at the Quidditch World Cup.

The young witch smiled, not as widely as she felt like, but appropriate for a retainer meeting her Patron in public, and bowed in the formal greeting.

  
“My Patron.”

“My Wand.”

As soon as Harry returned the formal greeting she straightened up and opened the door to the compartment. He strode inside and she followed, locking the door and providing privacy with a flick of her wand and a muttered incantation. Then she hugged him. Hard. It might just be the magic of the Patron Oath at work, but she was almost sighing contentedly at their brief closeness.

“Hi Harry!”

“Hi Hermione.”

Sitting down, Harry pulled out his trunk, unshrunk it, then took his school robes out. Hermione resisted her sudden urge to sort and repack his stuff in an orderly fashion when she saw the chaos inside. Instead she sighed, loudly, which made him laugh, and her giggle.

A conjured screen - a variant of a predecessor of the protego Hermione had found during third year when researching self-defense spells - preserved Harry’s modesty while he changed into his school robes.

“Is Hedwig already on her way to Hogwarts?”

“She is, yes. Sent her ahead after breakfast at Sirius’s.” Harry threw the expensive dress robe into his trunk, grinning when he caught her wincing, then closed and shrunk the piece of luggage. Hermione shook her head at him, smiling wrily despite herself. He had come a long way since she first had seen him, the real him and not the image her books had painted of him in her mind.

*****

_It had been her worst day at Hogwarts, in first year. Well, the worst day so far. She had been crying in a bathroom, the harsh words of Ron Weasley hours earlier having been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Alone, ostracized by her fellow Gryffindors, her at the time pitiful attempts to make friends rebuffed. It had felt like the end of her new world, a world full of promises, of discoveries, of magic._

_Then the troll had entered, sniffing the air, growling, waving with a massive club, a ripped out tree trunk she realized while she stood, frozen in fright. The beast had spotted her, and let out a roar that broke her out of her paralysis. She had scrambled away, on all fours, frantically, ducking and dodging, all thoughts of magic and her wand forgotten in the face of such a monster. It had wrecked the bathroom, smashing toilets, sinks, stalls and walls with ease, showering her with shards and splinters that cut her skin. It had driven her on, away from the door, until she was trapped in a corner, bleeding. The troll had bared its teeth, slowly raising the big club, as if it was savoring the moment until it would smash her. Hermione had known then she’d die there, alone and far away from her family._

_And in that moment he had stormed inside. Harry Potter. The orphan hero who had vanquished a Dark Lord as a toddler. Harry had distracted the monster by jumping on his back and climbing up. At once the troll had forgotten about Hermione and had attempted to shake off the young wizard clinging to him. Ron had been there as well, at the door, wand in hand, staring, until she had shouted at him to cast. Their spells had been ineffective though, the skin of the troll too tough, his grip on the club too strong, until Harry had stuck his wand up the monster’s nose and roasted his brain with what Hermione later thought to be accidental magic. He had almost been crushed when the monster had toppled over, smashing the last intact sink in the process, but the young wizard had managed to jump clear at the last second. He had never lost his grip on his wand either._

_Hermione would never forget the sight of him, standing on the corpse, his wand tip covered with smoking black ichor, smiling at her, asking if she was safe, unhurt. It had been a moment right out of a fairy tale. The hero, having defeated the monster, and the girl he had saved, staring at each other, ready to..._

_Then the teachers had arrived, and the moment had ended, and they were just students who had broken the rules. And killed a troll._

*****

Hermione touched her torc, running a finger over the three enchanted pendants dangling from it. That incident had changed her life. Without it she doubted she would be here, with Harry. She’d probably be in a similar situation like Wells - or gone from Hogwarts. All due to the troll in the bathroom, and of course the talk between two Slytherins she overheard in the library in Hogwarts.

*****

_“That know-it-all made a spectacle out of herself again today. It’s a wonder she didn’t rip her own arm out of its socket, she was raising her hand so fast at each question.”_

_That had been Pansy Parkinson’s voice, a tad shrilly. Hermione had stopped her search for the most recent volume of ‘Irish Magical Herbs and Seeds’, and had listened to the conversation on the other side of the shelf._

_“What can you expect from mudbloods? Even the ones born into our world are barely civilized.” That had been Draco Malfoy, chuckling at his own ‘wit’. She had recognized his voice easily - there hadn’t been a day he had not thrown verbal barbs at her, Harry or Ron._

_“And the way she’s hanging around Potter. Disgraceful. And he lets her, treats her like an equal even though she owes him her life.” Pansy had sniffed, as if she had smelled something nasty._

_“Potter is a disgrace. If I was in his place, I’d use her life debt to put her in her place.” Draco had laughed at his feeble word play again, but it had sounded a bit forced._

_“Does your father know who is going to be her Patron? Maybe she’ll be reined in next year.”_

_“That’s an excellent idea. Or… maybe my father will become her Patron. That would be ideal. I’ll write him.”_

_Hermione had heard Pansy laugh at that and praise Draco for his cunning, but had stopped listening to their talk. Life Debt? Patron? Put her in her place? She had had no idea what the two Slytherins had been talking about. But she had been in a library, the best and biggest library in all of Wizarding Britain. She would find answers._

_And she had found out what the two had meant, in the hours that had followed. She had skipped dinner, caught up in her research, hunger losing any importance when faced with the growing feeling of horror at what the various books and scrolls she had read had revealed to her._

_‘When a wizard risks his own life to save the life of another wizard or witch, a life debt is created. Magic itself will ensure that it is paid back with an equal deed or service. As long as the life debt remains active, a strong bond is formed, to facilitate the repayment. Many a wizard whose life has been saved sacrificed his own life later, to repay the debt. A noteworthy example was Hieronimus Parkinson in the Battle at Hogsmeade in 1612, where he took a dozen poisoned goblin arrows for James Abbot, who had saved him from a Manticore 10 years before. The alliance between the two families created by those deeds lasted until the unfortunate almost-wedding between Agatha Abbot and Cyril Parkinson in 1709.’_

_Hermione had imagined sacrificing herself to save Harry. It had felt right. Then she had realized how wrong that should have felt, and realized that magic was already influencing her. The young witch had needed a few minutes to calm down after that, her fist pressed into her mouth to prevent herself from screaming in the library._

_‘To repay a life debt requires an equal deed or service. Among wizards of equal standing, only saving the other’s life, honour or livelihood will truly balance the scales, and lacking such an opportunity can cause quite a detrimental effect as the magic keeps prodding the indebted party, even to the point of dividing their loyalties between their saviour and their own Head of Family. It is thought such a situation was the root of the infamous Green Solstice in 1375, when the Head of the Fickleton family as well as his designated successor and bride fell to killing curses cast by his younger brother Anastasius, who owed a life debt to the heir of the Fickleton’s ancient rival, the Proudfoot Family. It could not be verified, since Anastasius in turn was slain by his cousin, with a killing curse as well, before his brother’s corpse had touched the ground.’_

_She had already been familiar with the hierarchy of Wizarding Britain caste system - though that particular term was absent in every book she had read - with purebloods on top, half-bloods below them, and muggleborns on the bottom. Since she was a muggleborn and Harry a pureblood, this did not apply to her._

_‘Between Wizards of unequal standing, repaying a life debt is far easier, for the indebted party can either grant their saviour a boon far above their station, if of higher standing themselves, or enter their service as a retainer, if of lower standing. An extreme example was the adoption of Lucullus Harrison by the Head of the Macmillan family as a reward for saving his life. The muggleborn wizard was thus elevated to pureblood status, though it is believed that he was his natural son, born to a muggleborn retainer of the family, to begin with.’_

_Hermione had been surprised to realize just how rare Harry’s adoption might have been according to this volume - though maybe that had changed since this book had been written a century ago. But the implications for her had pushed such thoughts from her mind. To find out she was pushed by magic to repay her debt to Harry... What she had thought to be friendship could have simply been the effect of magic compelling her. That had been terrifying enough, but what her search for the meaning of ‘Patron’ had revealed…_

_‘Muggleborns, those rare wizards or witches born to actual muggles, without a magical parentage on either side, posed quite a problem for Wizarding Britain, lacking any blood ties to established pureblood families. In the past most of them were simply taken from their muggle families by the pureblood wizard who discovered them and were raised in a magical family, but that practise was outlawed by a Royal Decree shortly before the 16th century. Instead the Patron System was established by Fytherley Undercliffe, the Headmaster of Hogwarts at the time. Muggleborns would receive a Patron during their time at Hogwarts, to help guide them into the Magical World and provide them with a Head of Family and a proper, secure place in Wizarding Society. At the time most muggleborns were married to half-bloods, elevating their children to half-bloods and creating true ties of blood to a pureblood family. The practise of muggleborns marrying each other, or even entering concubinages with not so discerning purebloods was still unthinkable, so muggleborns very rarely inherited their Patron from their parents, as is the usual case today.’_

_That had not seemed that bad. Hermione would have welcomed having such a Patron to explain to her the intricacies of Wizarding Society, after her first visit to Diagon Alley. She had felt so overwhelmed at walking through such a magical street, filled with sights she hadn’t even been able to imagine, that she hadn’t been able to think clearly, much less ask all that she should have asked Professor McGonagall then. And her time in Hogwarts so far had been spent learning magic, not the ins and outs of the society she was now part of. How stupid she had been!_

_‘At the beginning there was a fierce competition among some families for talented muggleborns, which besmirched the dignity and importance of the Patron System and even caused a few muggleborns to grow arrogant and have demands far above their station. Fortunately it quickly became tradition that only one Head of Family would ever offer to become the Patron of a muggleborn, determined at the Summer Solstice Meeting of the Families following the muggleborn’s first year at Hogwarts. When the Wizengamot was established this task fell to it.’_

_Hermione hadn’t liked the undertones in that part. To have others decide who her Patron would be - it was unsaid, but clearly implied that the offer could not be refused - seemed wrong to her. What if someone like Snape would pick her? Or, even worse, Draco’s father?_

_‘A Patron is like the Head of Family for a true muggleborn. He or she provides guidance for those not fortunate enough to be born and raised in a magical family, helping them to become a productive member of Wizarding Britain and supporting them in their career. While it is a great responsibility to teach a muggleborn wizard or witch the ways of the Magical World, nothing is as rewarding for a Patron as seeing the muggleborn take their place alongside their peers after Hogwarts, marrying and raising children of their own. Only in rare cases does a muggleborn prove to be in need of more than gentle guidance, and thus require their Patron to resort to the means offered by the Patron Oath to correct their behaviour.’_

_She had been shaking when she had finished that part. If Draco’s father would become her Patron … she had felt bile rise in her throat, and had barely managed to keep from vomiting on the library floor. She had not been an expert in Wizarding Britain’s politics and society, back then, but she had had no illusions what being a client or retainer of the Malfoy family would mean. Months of constant insults and ‘pranks’ and ‘accidental hexing’ had left no doubt about that._

_Tears had ran down her cheeks while she had tried to find a way out. Running had been impossible - they’d have found her. Attending Hogwarts was mandatory, and they might even had taken her from her parents afterwards. Hoping for a less bigoted Patron would not have been enough. The teachers would not have been able to help her, since her fate would have been decided in the Wizengamot. Even worse, with her life debt, she’d have been caught between magically enforced loyalty to Harry and whatever magical compulsion her Patron would have been able to command. She hadn’t been an expert, but it certainly wouldn’t have been a good position to be in. How naive she had been, to assume Wizarding Britain was just like her home country, but with magic!_

_The young witch had still been searching, desperately, for salvation when the library had closed. Her fellow Gryffindors had assumed she had been studying for an upcoming test, and hadn’t cared about her state, though Harry had seemed concerned, before Ron had pulled him up to the boys’ dorm. Harry, she had realized then, before she fell asleep herself, hungry and exhausted, had been the key._

*****

“What are you thinking about?” Harry’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She smiled at him, and pulled lightly on her torc.

“I was just thinking of when you became my Patron.”

“Ah.” He smiled, though she was aware he did not completely feel like smiling. For all the two of them had gone through, she knew he still felt a bit guilty about her situation, no matter how often she had told him it was the best thing he could have done for her.

*****

_“Harry, I need to talk to you,” Hermione had stated. With a glance to Ron she had added, “Alone. It’s very important.” She hadn’t disliked Ron, but she’d certainly not have wanted to discuss the most important decision of her life with someone who argued against doing one’s homework on time every time she had reminded him and Harry. Judging by the way Ron had cringed and made himself scarce, her glance might have been closer to a glare. Or he had spotted her full bookbag, and had thought it was about homework. It hadn’t mattered, only Harry had, and he had come with her to an unused classroom._

_Hermione had closed the door had laid out her notes and books on the table, carefully. She had been delaying, nervous to the point of trembling, and about to bite her lower lip until it bled._

_“Are you alright?” Harry had sounded concerned, caring. As she had come to expect of him. She had shaken her head._

_“No, I am not. I am in a terrible situation, and only you can help me.” His surprise had quickly given way to determination, as she had expected. Quickly - relatively, for it took some time to explain it all - she had told him what she had found out about life debts and the Patron System._

_“So… it’s possible that Draco’s father will become your Patron?” Harry had sounded as horrified at the thought as she had been feeling._

_“Yes. It doesn’t have to happen, but… he hasn’t been a Patron yet, so custom would give him precedence over those wizards and witches who already have been a Patron.” Or so she had thought. A lot of Wizarding Britain’s customs were not codified, or even written down. One simply had to know it, had had to be born into it. The best she had been able to achieve was inferring and deducing from recorded events._

_“But what can I do? I am not a member of the Wizengamot.”_

_“I owe you a life debt, and you are the Head of the Potter family. You can become my Patron. Even though you’re still a minor, a life debt is so important, and so personal, it takes precedence over any other claim.” At least partially because the magic of a life debt was so strong, one could not trust a Patron Oath to hold against it if the two conflicted. Or any other oath or obligation._

_Harry had looked unsure, almost afraid. Hermione had not know what he had been afraid of, but had not cared. Her life had been on the line. She had laid a hand on his arm, looked into his eyes._

_“Please…”_

_Harry had shivered, then taken a deep breath and calmed down. “Alright. I’ll do it. But I don’t know what I have to do.”_

_Hermione had beamed at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you!”_

*****

Remembering that scene, Hermione had to smile. She had been so naive then, and so selfish. She had had no idea of just how many things she had had to learn, and to teach Harry.

“Did you ever regret what we did then?” Harry asked, fiddling with a small mirror.

“No.” Hermione had regretted it, of course. Had even ranted, when she was alone, at the injustice of it. But compared to the alternatives, it had been for the best - both for her, and for Harry. Even though they had had to struggle. Or especially because they had had to struggle for it.

*****

_It had been the first time Hermione and Harry had been in the office of the Headmaster. She had been awed, almost distracted by his personal library, by the strange and wonderful knick-knacks, and of course the beautiful phoenix, whose trilling greeting made her feel warm and loved, and banished her nervousness. Dumbledore had kindly smiled at them, introduced them to Fawkes, as the phoenix had been called, invited the two to sit down, and then offered them lemon drops. Hermione had declined, as had Harry. She had been so nervous, she had had trouble eating dinner that day._

_“Now, what important topic do you two have to discuss with me?” The Headmaster had sounded like an indulgent grandfather, kind and caring. Hermione had taken heart at that, and had gone straight to the point of their meeting, while she still felt the phoenix’ magic calming her._

_“Sir, as you without a doubt already know, I owe Harry a life debt, since he has risked his own life to save me from that troll during the Samhain celebration. To repay that I offer to become his retainer. As his guardian, we ask for your blessing.” Technically, the Dursleys had been Harry’s guardians, but they had only been able to handle the muggle aspects of his life. For anything magical a witch or wizard had been required, and the Headmaster had been Harry’s guardian for such matters, in loco parentis. A life debt repayment and a Patron Oath without a doubt qualified as magical matters Harry needed his guardian’s permission for._

_Hermione had not been sure, but she had thought there had been a flicker of surprise and annoyance on Dumbledore’s face, before he spoke with his grandfatherly, if patronizing tone: “Ah! Miss Granger, Harry, you are still young children, who should not be burdened with such grave matters. A life debt is an obligation not easily repaid. One should not talk about becoming or accepting a retainer lightly, or without the knowledge of what such things entail. I would be remiss in my duties if I would let Harry take on a responsibility he is not ready for.”_

_Usually Hermione would have been swayed by his words and manner, deferring to a wiser and more experienced adult, but this had not been some complaint about lessons, or some minor trouble. This had been about her life, and she had given this a lot of thought, had sweated and cried about it. So she had sat straight in her seat, collected all her courage, and responded: “Sir. The life debt exists, its bond exists. I can feel its pull already. All the books I have read agree that unless I repay this debt, I will always feel beholden to Harry. And becoming his retainer is the only way I have to repay the debt, short of saving his life.”_

_“You are still young. Who is to say you will not be able to repay the debt in another way, later in your life?” Hermione had to blink at that. Did the Headmaster expect another troll to enter the castle? “Harry, my boy. You should enjoy your childhood, not try to take on a responsibility beyond your years. We are only young once, and the older we grow, the less carefree we become.”_

_Hermione had been able to see that Harry might be swayed by the Headmaster’s reasoning, and had spoken up again, her words aimed at both even though she addressed Dumbledore: “Headmaster, in less than a year I will have a Patron. It could be anyone, even Malfoy.” A glance had shown her Harry straightening up. Good._

_“Miss Granger, Patrons are selected from the Heads of Families. Experienced wizards and witches. Harry is a mere boy, and raised by muggles. He cannot provide the guidance and insight a Patron has to offer, since he is still in need of guidance himself.”_

_“If given the choice, I’d rather have Harry than Malfoy as a Patron. I think I am better off without the kind of guidance I’d receive from Draco’s father if his son is anything to judge him by”_

_“The Malfoys are an Old Family, Miss Granger, They can offer a lot to a young witch new to the Magical World.”_

_“They can, Sir. Though I have my doubts that they will. Judging by Draco’s words and actions, they do not seem to be favorably inclined towards muggleborns such as myself.”_

_  
_ _“You should not judge the family by the actions of a child, Miss Granger. Young Draco is still seeking his way, making mistakes as children are wont to do.” He had turned to Harry, who had been scowling. “Harry, do you really think you can be Miss Granger’s Patron? Wouldn’t she be better off with a more experienced Patron? What can you offer her that would help her in her life?”_

_Hermione had seen then how Harry had cringed, doubt and insecurity written on his face. And she had been flush with anger, the urge to protect him, console him, filling her. The life debt at work, she had later realized. At the time, she had simply acted, not thought, and wrapped Harry in a hug while she glared at Dumbledore. “Headmaster! He has saved my life! No one else can ever equal what he has done for me! If he’s not ready to be my Patron now, then he’ll be ready next year. He can learn. I will help him!” Again a flicker of anger had appeared in Dumbledore’s eyes. She had barely noticed it, since Harry had returned her hug at the same time. “If you are unwilling to give your permission for this, then maybe Harry is in need of a guardian who will not stand against all tradition and refuse to let a life debt be honoured.”_

_She had not understood, back then, why that had made Dumbledore cave in. She hadn’t been experienced enough, hadn’t known enough about politics and Wizarding Britain’s society. But she had never been able to fully forget the idea that Headmaster might have wanted for Malfoy to become her patron, despite her life debt towards Harry, no matter how stupid it sounded. All that had mattered had been that the Headmaster had given his permission. Hermione, afraid of Harry changing his opinion or losing his backbone, had pushed for an immediate ceremony right then and there._

_Harry and Hermione had stood up and had been facing each other in Dumbledore’s office, with the Headmaster watching from the side. Hermione had bent her right knee and held out her wand with both hands above her head, as they had rehearsed beforehand._

_“Harry James Potter, Head of the Potter family. You have risked your own life to save my life. To repay that, I, Hermione Jean Granger, offer you my wand to be used in your service, to be raised in your defense, until it is buried with me.”_

_Harry had taken the wand. “Hermione Jean Granger, I, Harry James Potter, Head of my family, accept your offer and welcome you into my service and into my family, to be protected in need, and guided when lost.” With that he touched her head, then her chest over her heart with Hermione’s wand before handing it back to her. “Raise your wand for me.”_

_Hermione stood up, then raised her wand. “I swear to use my wand in your service, raise it in your defense, until it is buried with me. Lumos.” While her wand tip lit up with bright light, Harry raised his own wand._

_“I swear to protect you in need, and lead you with honour, and treat you as family. Lumos.” His wand tip too lit up. They - or rather Hermione - had chosen an older version of the Patron Oath, much closer to an oath of fealty in that it bound both Patron and retainer than the currently commonly used version, which only stipulated the duties of the retainer. She had felt the bond changing when the oath took effect, but it had been a subtle change. The desire to help and protect Harry had still been there, just less urgent. A background melody instead of a voice whispering into her ear._

_When the two had canceled the light spells, Fawkes had trilled again, and warmth and happiness had filled Hermione once more. Impulsively, she had hugged Harry. To the side, next to his phoenix, Dumbledore had smiled, though a bit sadly, until the magical bird had pecked at his hand and demanded some treats. He had chuckled then._

*****

Indeed, it had been one of Hermione’s most memorable events. The first time she had worked powerful magic with a lasting, life changing effect. Before that day all she had done was casting some spells. Minor magic, fit for a beginner witch, seldom more than training exercises. Easily cast, and easily ended. That oath though… Once again she touched her torc. She was still feeling its effects. That happiness she felt when she saw Harry, the slight nudge to follow his suggestions - easily overcome though, since it was a very weak compulsion - were all due to the Oath.

“Oh, just for your information - Sirius is buying you a ‘proper retainer’s collar’ for your birthday, to go with your dress robes.” Harry obviously had noticed her gesture. Hermione looked at him, narrowing her eyes. Given how much of a prankster his godfather was…

Harry held up his hands. “Don’t worry, he does mean a real proper collar, not a, ah…”

“Not a dog collar, but a livery collar, yes.” Hermione didn’t really think Sirius would send a prank gift - he cared very much about his godson’s reputation, which by extension included her own - but it would be prudent to open any gift in private. She blushed slightly when she remembered her own reaction to reading about a ‘retainer’s collar’ when she had been researching the Patron System. Fortunately she had not shared what she had thought those collars were with anyone else before she had found out they looked like the chains of office mayors wore to special occasion. They were only worn with dress robes, and at a select few official events though, so they hadn’t needed to get one so far.

Her torc had been another thing, far too expensive in her opinion, even now, but then, Harry had been livid when Malfoy had mockingly insinuated he couldn’t afford to buy her a proper retainer’s insignia, and had gone overboard, no matter how much she had insisted that a simple ribbon would work fine. She was sure that even without Harry being her Patron she wouldn’t have been able to convince him.

“He does his best to spoil me.” Harry smiled a bit ruefully. He wasn’t that comfortable with it, which Hermione privately found funny - she had been in his place, after all, when Harry suddenly had come into money after the basilisk.

“It just means you can use your money for more important things.” She grinned at him.

“Like you?” He grinned cheekily right back, causing her to frown. She wasn’t a thing.

“Like your education.” And hers.

“You just want more rare books to read.”

“Yes.” Hermione wasn’t ashamed to admit that. Books contained knowledge, which they needed. The more they knew, the less mistakes they’d make. And they couldn’t afford to make many mistakes to begin with.

“So… which poor piece of muggle electronics will you be wrecking this term?” Harry’s tone was light, teasing, and yet Hermione couldn’t help but scowl when he reminded her of her past failures in getting electronics to work at Hogwarts.

“A radio receiver and a walkman. I am convinced that wards are the key to make them work. Electronics work fine right next to Diagon Alley, they work fine even when you cast spell after spell around them or on them, but they stop working once you enter the Leaky Cauldron. It has to be the wards that stop them from working.”

“You’ve been busy at home, haven’t you?”

“Not more than usual. Besides, home is the only place I could experiment. Grimmauld Place has wards as well.” Without the permission of their Head of Family, or Patron, or guardian, an underage student was not allowed to do magic outside school. Hermione had gotten a blanket permission from Harry, so technically it was all legal, even if Harry himself wasn’t allowed to cast spells without Sirius’s permission.

“It would be good to be able to listen to music and news at Hogwarts. Sirius has a great, if slightly dated, collection of records from the 70s.”

“You know my dad has a collection as well. What does Sirius listen to?”

For the next while the two compared the music styles of their respective families, sharing amusement at some of the more embarrassing records they had discovered, and reminiscing about the good songs they’d be missing at Hogwarts until the holidays.

“Do you think the Triwizard Tournament will feature a concert?” Hermione had been overwhelmed by her first wizard concert at the Quidditch World Cup. Words, even records couldn’t adequately describe such performances, where spells and music came together to form something far more than either could provide alone. That event alone would have been worth attending the World Cup, Hermione thought.

“I sure hope so!” Harry sounded enthusiastic. Things had been going well for him, and her, ever since Sirius had been exonerated. “This should be a good year. A great year even.”

*****

Deep in the bowels of the Ministry for Magic, Barty Crouch Jr. wiped sweat from his brow and sat down for a bit, to catch his breath. Manipulating an ancient artifact dating back to the Founders, or close to, was exhausting. Dangerous too - without the instructions from his master, he would have never survived the attempt, and even so he had had to resort to a dark ritual to affect the Goblet of Fire.

Rested enough, he stood up, then checked his pocket watch. A few more minutes until his polyjuice potion would wear off. He took another swig from his flask. It wouldn’t do to suddenly change form, even at this hour of the day. While his father had a legitimate excuse to be at the Ministry in the middle of the night - everyone knew he was married to his work, after the death of his wife, which would also neatly explain his upcoming illness - Barty Crouch Jr. was supposed to have died years ago, and getting discovered might threaten the plans of his Master. Something he’d die to avoid.

And what glorious plans they were! He was not privy to all of them - his master was cunning and cautious - but he had done an important task today. The Boy-Who-Lived and his pet mudblood would receive quite the surprise come Samhain. They would pay for murdering his master’s basilisk.

*********


	2. Memories and Musings

**Chapter 2: Memories and Musings**

Harry leaned back while Hermione was explaining her latest attempt to get electronics working at Hogwarts. In great detail. The runes and arithmancy theory did sound good to him, but he was not the researcher of the two and she had lost him when she started to talk about post-O.W.L. stuff. So he made the appropriate appreciative noises and studied his oldest and best friend. She was looking well. Slight tan from her vacation, hair loose so her long curls were covering most of her shoulders - he somewhat fondly remembered her bushy hair, before she had learned her first cosmetic spells - and her new robe. Enchanted by herself, of course. 

That was Hermione as he and only a few others knew her: Passionate, enthusiastic, happy. Most only knew the facade she presented to the rest of the world. The stoic, dutiful and loyal muggleborn retainer. The shadow of the Boy-Who-Lived. The know-it-all who beat the purebloods at their own game. Harry himself was presenting a facade to the public as well. The Boy-Who-Lived. Youngest seeker in century. Slayer of Slytherin’s Monster. And youngest Patron in history. He almost scoffed at that thought.

He hadn’t known anything about the Magical World when he had boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time. He had committed so many faux-pas in his first few months out of sheer ignorance, he had almost ruined his reputation if not for his Quidditch talent and his killing of the troll. Such heroic deeds had bought him some leeway, he had been seen as eccentric rather than uncouth. Until he had become Hermione’s Patron. Then he had to quickly learn what he should have known all along. Fortunately Hermione was a good, if pushy tutor. If she wanted to learn something not much could stop her. Not even a teacher. 

*****

_ Hermione and Harry had knocked on the Transfiguration teacher’s office door after dinner, and it had swung open by itself while a disembodied voice - not the professor - had invited them in. _

_ “Professor McGonagall?”  _

_ “Please enter.” That had been her voice, friendly, tough with a touch of impatience - or annoyance, or so Harry had thought. They had been in that office before, after the incident with the troll. It hadn’t changed. Marble furniture that seemed to grow out of the floor: A desk, shelves, even chairs. Not much in the way of decorations - a single painting of a Highland Cottage on the side, a wand mounted on the wall. The rest had been books and parchment. Austere, cold, solid. Like McGonagall, in a way. And yet flexible when needed - she had to use magic to adjust her office all the time, Hermione had theorized. _

_ The teacher had been looking at them, not quite frowning, but far from smiling. “What can I do for you, Mister Potter?”  _

_ Not ‘Mister Potter, Miss Granger’. Ever since Harry had become Hermione’s Patron it had been like that in such meetings. It had been quite the contrast from the more egalitarian stance during classes. Hermione had felt insulted at first, when she had noticed, but then she had realized that addressing both of them when they were together would have been a faux pas since it would have implied that they had a similar status. Which would have been an insult to Harry. Just as it would have been an insult to let Hermione speak for them when addressing both a pureblood Head of Family and an authority with her Patron present. Hermione could have come alone, but Harry hadn’t wanted that. It was for his sake, after all. _

_ “I am in need of lessons in Wizarding Etiquette, Professor. Hermione and I have been studying the relevant tomes in the library, but we have noticed there are a few gaps in the knowledge provided by the books.” A fact that had vexed Hermione greatly. The girl had practically devoured ‘The Wizard’s Book to Etiquette’ and ‘Etiquette for Witches’, only to realize that they were meant for half-bloods and muggleborns. Purebloods, especially Heads of Families, were meant to learn proper conduct in polite society from their family. Hermione had managed to deduce part of what they needed from various sources, among them even a play that denounced ‘uncouth muggleborns’ by contrasting them with well-bred purebloods on stage, but that method had had its limits. Not to mention that it had also taught them quite old-fashioned customs - although acting as if they were even more conservative than the purebloods their age certainly had confused the other students. _

_ “I am sorry to say this, but I am quite busy with my duties as Transfiguration Mistress, Head of House and Deputy Headmistress. I cannot spend time tutoring students in topics outside the official curriculum.” The professor had not sounded quite as sorry as she had claimed to be. Harry had glanced over to Hermione. She had picked up on that as well, and had had to fight not to butt in. Harry had expected that reaction - none of the teachers had been happy with Harry becoming Hermione’s Patron. Part of that had been caused, he knew, by him and Hermione exploiting their unique circumstances to circumvent a number of school rules which had never been meant to deal with a student also serving as a Patron. _

_ “Oh, of course not, I’d never impose on you like that. I fully understand that Hogwarts has not the capacity to provide such lessons.” He had smiled widely, as guilelessly when he had convinced his elementary teacher that he and his cousin had had nothing to do with the bird bath incident. “I just wanted to ask for permission to hire an etiquette tutor. Well, not for permission to hire one, I do not need anyone’s permission for hiring someone for my retainer, but for him or her to visit us in Hogwarts for the lessons.” _

_ “Mister Potter, only staff is allowed to teach at Hogwarts. I cannot permit such visits.” Harry had been sure Hermione had been biting her lower lip then, ready to explode at the old witch. A glance from him had caused her to settle down a tiny bit. Good enough. _

_ “I understand completely.” His smile had shown more teeth then. “I’ll have to hire a tutor over the holidays, and over summer. It will be quite the workload, but I bet a number of people will jump at the chance to teach the Boy-Who-Lived what Hogwarts or his guardian in loco parentis could not, so I should manage to find a willing teacher.” From the way McGonagall had frozen for just an instant, she had understood what he had implied.  _

_ “On second thought I think I can manage to spare the time to fill those gaps you mentioned.” Her eyes had been blazing though her tone had remained controlled, if more than a bit cold. He had not cared that much, despite knowing she was already overworked to some degree. But he needed those lessons, for Hermione as much as for himself, and she was his responsibility. Besides, if McGonagall had noticed Hermione missing at Samhain, none of this would have have been possible. _

_ A bit later the two had left the office, with a tentative schedule for etiquette lessons in their pockets. Hermione had been more than a bit disillusioned that they had had to use such pressure to achieve their goal, but Harry had considered that the first lesson he had taught her as her Patron.  _

*****

Hermione was still detailing her planned experiments. A lock of her hair had come loose - he wasn’t sure if that was a fault or feature of the cosmetic charm she used - and she absentmindedly pulled it back behind her ear while explaining about interlocking inverted runes. He had thought she was pretty, even before she had had her teeth fixed, but he knew she was insecure about her looks. And, though he didn’t like to think about that, she might mistake his intent. A Patron had a lot of power over their retainer, and he would not be able to bear seeing his best, most trusted friend look at him with fear in her eyes. Fear of what he might demand of her. He felt guilty enough about her situation as a muggleborn, and that wasn’t his fault.

It was bad enough with the Dursleys. They tried, honestly tried, to be his family, to support him, care for him, but they were so afraid of magic, so afraid of him, that he had hated living with them. And had hated himself for feeling that way.

He could not even honestly blame them. Aunt Petunia had lost her parents and sister to wizards who saw her as barely more than an animal, then had been told by Dumbledore that only Harry’s presence in their home protected them from those wizards who wished him and his family harm. He couldn’t hold her responsible for not telling him he was a wizard either - she had been informed of what the consequences were for breaking the Statute of Secrecy. And as he had recently found out, from Sirius, his father and his friends had played some pranks on Petunia and Vernon back in the day. Harmless for wizards (or so Sirius claimed - his standards were a bit off, Harry had discovered), but terrifying for muggles who couldn’t undo spells with a wave of their wand and were utterly helpless against magic. It had not been a surprise that she had panicked when Harry had started to have bouts of accidental magic. Not after he had thrown the older boy who had tried to steal Dudley’s toy 10 meters back with a wave of his hand. Obliviators had covered it up, but had not touched the Dursleys.

That had happened when he had been five. Petunia had, in an attempt to prevent further such incidents, told her neighbours that Harry was a nice kid, but could “freak out” when pushed. She had meant well, but instead of instructing their kids not to push or bully Harry, the neighbours had told them to avoid him. At least Dudley wasn’t afraid of him, or his ‘special power’, as Petunia had explained Harry’s magic to him, when ordering him to keep it secret, ‘or bad men will come and take you away’. An explanation that had made sense to him after watching Dr. Who. It hadn’t helped with his isolation from other kids his age, though. Something he shared with Hermione.

And he actually had a special power, something other wizards had not, as he had found out in his first year.

*****

_ Harry had gone home for Christmas but both he and the Dursleys had been glad that he had spent a number of days after Christmas with the Grangers, after Hermione had given them a heavily edited explanation which had taken a long time, even though it could have been summarized as ‘He saved my life, and now he is responsible for me according to Wizarding Society’. Some of the looks Hermione’s parents had given him had made him almost wish they’d have been afraid of him. Though all in all it had been a good time - best Christmas holiday in years for him. _

_ Neither he nor Hermione had been suspicious when the Defense Teacher, Professor Quirrell, had asked them to meet him in his office after dinner on the same day they had returned to Hogwarts. Hermione usually had done extra credit work for any teacher that allowed it and Harry had demonstrated a talent for Defense even the rather demanding professor had acknowledged.  _

_ The office had been cluttered with books and all sorts of strange things, not unlike Dumbledore’s and a far cry from McGonagall’s, but it hadn’t had the sort of ‘lived in’ feel that the Headmaster’s had. And no phoenix. It had been darker too, with less lights floating around, and those that had been there had been mismatched like the furniture. The result of too many different teachers, over the years, who had used this office but had never really taken it over. What was unique though was the smell, no, the stench of garlic that had filled the entire room. Harry had almost gagged, and he had heard Hermione gasp. _

_ “Good evening, Mister Potter.” The professor hadn’t been behind his desk, but had appeared at their side, out of the shadows there, surprising - to put it mildly - the two students. Before Harry had realized it he had positioned himself between Hermione and the teacher. At the same time he had felt a sudden, stabbing pain in his scar that made him gasp and almost fall down. He had recovered though, despite the ongoing pain, and had faced the teacher, who had looked quite different compared to before the holidays. _

_ The man’s robes had been rather frayed, and instead of his usual wide hat, which tended to float after him when he took it off and was enchanted, as he had been fond to say during class, ‘with enough spells to hold a rampant Manticore at bay’, he had worn a turban. His face had looked haggard too, quite a difference from the jovial wizard they had known, and his eyes had showed an intensity that was almost frightening. “Please hand over your wands, I need to check them. There has been an incident.” _

_ The two had done so, after a slight hesitation, with Hermione looking indignant at the suggestion she could have broken whatever rule had been broken during this incident. Harry had been distracted by the constant pain in his scar - he had expected blood to run down his face any moment, or bleed into his brain.  _

_ The teacher had not checked the wands though, but dropped them into a drawer of his massive desk, which had closed by itself at a gesture from him. Harry had started to grow concerned then - handing over a wand was a major gesture in the Wizarding World. Apart from authorities in the line of their duty, only the closest of friends would even ask for that. _

_ “Tell me, have you heard about the artifact hidden in this school?” _

_ There had been rumors about something valuable or important or dangerous hidden in the school. Neither Harry nor Hermione had paid much attention - in their spare time outside school and, in Harry’s case, Quidditch, they had been busy trying to learn as much of the rules of Wizarding Britain as possible while avoiding Draco Malfoy’s attempts to discredit or simply injure them.  _

_ “No, Sir, I haven’t,” Harry had answered while Hermione, her curiosity evident, had perked up, and stepped up to his side. _

_ The man had smiled, and Harry’s unease had grown. That smile had been very different from his usual, slightly teasing smile. “Dumbledore has hidden the Philosopher’s Stone here.” When neither Harry nor Hermione had shown any sign of recognizing it, the man had snarled. “The most sought-after alchemical artifact in the history of magic! I’ve been looking for it for a week, while Dumbledore attended the usual New Year’s festivities at the ICW and the Ministry of Magic, and I haven’t found even a trace of it, only false leads and traps.” _

_ Harry had glanced at the door then, but a flick of the professor’s wand had covered the rust-colored wooden door with a shimmering field of magic. “Too late Mister Potter.” Quirrell had been standing behind his desk, a smile so warped it had almost looked like a caricature on his face. “Your mudblood will go and tell the Headmaster that I demand the stone, in exchange for your life.” With that he had aimed his wand at Harry and shot a red spell at him. _

_ Harry still remembered the surprised expression on Quirrell’s face when said spell hadn’t hit him, but had been reflected back at the caster instead, striking the teacher right into his chest. The man had fallen down, but hadn’t been knocked unconscious - though he had started to move with obvious difficulties, in an almost uncoordinated manner. “Potter!” he had growled in an inhuman voice, “You’ll pay for this!” _

_ Harry and Hermione had charged forward to get their wands, but neither had been able to open the desk drawer. In desperation, Harry had taken a page out of Dudley’s book and had jumped the wizard still trying to get up. Both had tumbled to the floor again, and Harry had started to hit the man wherever he had managed to reach. His weak blows had not shown any effect, until he had landed one in the man’s face.  _

_ To his horror, the face had started to disintegrate, turning into ashes. And while the growling had turned into curses, the face had not moved, not even the eyes, while the body had started to jerk and twitch, then flail around.  _

_ “Potter! Curse you!”  _

_ It had only been after the turban had come undone that he had caught a glimpse of a second, monstrous face on the back of Quirrell’s head, screaming at him in pain and hatred, until that too had disintegrated, leaving only ashes and a green spectre that had fled through the wall. Harry and Hermione had exchanged shocked looks, then Harry had stared at his hands, right before he had thrown up on the still smoking corpse. _

_ The two had been stuck there for a few hours, until the spell on the door had faded and they had been able to get help - the desk had withstood any attempts to get the drawer to open. They had covered the remains up with some tarp taken from an empty cage in the corner, and had spent the rest of the time sitting on the other side of the desk, trying to puzzle out what had happened. _

_ They didn’t find any explanation, until Dumbledore told them that the man had become possessed over the holidays, likely during his trip to the Mediterranean, where he had planned to investigate ancient tombs. _

*****

Harry still remembered the lessons he had learned then: He had a special power, and he should never hand over his wand to anyone he did not trust. The latter lesson had gotten him into trouble with Snape more than once, of course; but that would have happened anyway. 

Hermione had finally finished her explanation of her planned experiment, and despite his well-timed appreciative comments she smiled at him in that mixture of fondness and slight annoyance that told him she had noticed he hadn’t really paid attention. He smiled in return, spreading his hands briefly to show he had noticed. A brief check of his new watch - a gift from Sirius as well, mechanical and enchanted of course - showed they still had quite some time until the Weasleys would arrive, unless they had decided to break with their pattern of always boarding the train at the last minute. Thinking of Ron...

“‘Baiting the Basilisk’ is still selling well. Lockhart sent us our cut for the second quarter last week.” It had been sent to him alone, and both of them knew it, but neither commented on it. Instead Hermione nodded, and noted down the sum in her ledger.

“That alone should cover the tuition for this year,” she commented happily.

“Sirius insisted on paying my tuition.” Harry frowned slightly. He was very happy to have a godfather, a link to his parents and his family’s history, but he had been very proud of being able to provide for himself and Hermione thanks to something he - they - had earned. Hermione snorted, amused - she probably hadn’t missed the parallels between Sirius’ stance, and Harry’s stance towards her own tuition.

That book, but more so the events that led to it being written, had changed all their lives, back in their second year. Harry would never forget that night.

In the words of Lockhart, ‘Terror stalked Hogwarts in those days. Someone, something, had petrified a member of the staff and several students. Not even the great Dumbledore, vanquisher of the Dark Lord Grindelwald and the only one You-Know-Who ever feared, had found the lair of Slytherin’s Monster yet. It seemed only a matter of time until the first victim would be found dead - or disappeared. No one seemed safe, not after a Slytherin pureblood had been found petrified together with a ghost. And the mandrakes ordered would not arrive for several more days, so we had no remedy for those petrified. The students huddled in their common rooms, seeking safety in numbers, no matter how much of an illusion that would be in the face of such danger. They would have been sent home already, if not for the terrifying suspicion that among them, hidden by the darkest magic, lurked the Heir of Slytherin, and that sending them home would loosen him and his monster on the Magical World. Aurors supported the staff and had found a colony of acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest. Some thought the Monster had been found - but I and every reader of ‘Adventures with Acromantulas’ knew of course that those beasts rent and poisoned their victims, they did not petrify. No, Slytherin’s Monster was not a giant spider, but something far more terrible.

I had written to all my friends, whose adventures and heroic deeds my readers are surely familiar with, and asked them for advice. Advice, not help. I was sure that with Dumbledore as our protector we had no need of more wands, but knowledge only those who hunted the most dangerous terrors of the Magical World would be privy to. I would be proven wrong, for the knowledge we needed would be found in Hogwarts itself, thanks to our own hero, the Boy-Who-Lived, and his faithful friends. The young wizard had only weeks before been mistaken for the Heir of Slytherin himself due to his ability to talk to snakes - a great gift, as Jungle Jenny, the witch whose bravery and skill with a wand was only second to her beauty and whose deeds I have recounted in ‘Out in the Outback’, would say, as would anyone else living around the deadliest of snakes. And yet, far from carrying a grudge, he and his loyal retainer Hermione Granger as well as his best mate Ron Weasley, had snuck out of their dorm and braved the dangerous hallways, to search the library of Hogwarts, where I, on a similar mission, encountered them.’

*****

_ Harry, Hermione and Ron had used his father’s cloak of invisibility to sneak to the library. Harry had been reluctant to go, but Hermione had been adamant that they only needed a bit more information to identify the monster, and that time was of the essence. The young witch had also argued that the library, with all the protection spells to prevent theft or damages, would actually be safer than the common room. Since she had been there, unhurt and safe, while Hagrid, carrying a mirror for some reason, had been petrified not ten steps outside, Harry had been forced to agree with her logic. _

_ The library had been an impressive sight. The walls, lined with ancient wooden shelves, reached far higher than the those of the Great Hall, thanks to expansion charms. Floating marble platforms allowed those perusing it to reach those heights safely and easily. Self-indexing shelves, not quite as old, filled most of the centre and wings. Not nearly as tall, but still topping four yards each, they could be commanded to rotate their books up and down at verbal commands so there was no need for ladders or floating platforms there. The newest shelves even found books on certain topics, at the mere touch of one’s wand and a strong mental command, and deposited them in one’s hand. That the whole library was covered with a tailor-made silence spell, allowing everyone to talk normally without the voices carrying further than a few meters, was almost to be expected, as much as self-expanding tables that never ran out of space for books or studying partners. Hermione’s home away from home, Ron had called it - the young witch certainly felt at home there, and had happily informed them about the features of the library at every opportunity during their first year, eyes filled with delighted wonder at such a paradise for a bookworm. Kind of like Ron got when it came to Quidditch, not that Harry had ever voiced that comparison to either of them. _

_ They had made their way, still invisible, to the back, near the restricted section. There, visible, but out of reach of even the most advanced student without permission from the Headmaster himself, were the rarest, and most dangerous tomes stored, some of them dating back to the time of the Founders, some said to be even older. Hermione’s Holy Grail, Harry knew. That night though she had not wasted more than a single, longing look on those books before she had turned to the Magical Beast section, face set with stubborn determination. _

_ “My Patron, I would suggest we split our efforts up. One searches the books dealing with mythical and extinct beasts, the other two search through the tomes describing exotic beasts.” Hermione’s expression had clearly indicated that she did not consider this a mere suggestion. She had not yet been as able to hide her feelings on such matters. _

_ “A good idea, my Wand.” Back then, they had been formal with each other even if had been just the two of them and Ron. That had changed, of course, that very night. _

_ The three had been sitting at a table in the back, books covering the top. Hermione had gone through three tomes already, Ron had been on his first, Harry on his second, when they had been interrupted by the arrival of Lockhart. The professor hadn’t been happy to find three second year students there. But since he had been as pragmatic as his lessons, he had not taken much to be persuaded into joining them rather than escort them back to the Gryffindor dorm once he had seen their planned research. As he had put it: “If more of my colleagues were willing to research knowledge rather than search the castle, we might have already dealt with the monster.” He had even granted them a pass to access the books that spells prevented students from taking out of their shelf without special permission from a teacher. _

_ Harry hadn’t known how long they had spent there, barely talking to each other but for showing each other possible monsters, until Hermione had suddenly exclaimed “Yes! I’ve found it!” The three others had quickly crowded around her, staring at the picture of a basilisk in an old tome while the excited witch had explained her reasoning. “It all fits! Harry could understand it, so it has to be a snake, or snake-kin, or serpent-like monster. The spiders leaving, the dead roosters - probably the work of a conjured fox, not a real one - and the petrified victims, since every one of the them had only seen the reflection of the basilisk’s eyes, not the eyes directly. Hagrid must have come to the same conclusion, that’s why he has been carrying a mirror! And the monster is traveling through the pipes, that’s why no one found it yet and why Harry could hear it!” _

_ Lockhart had nodded. “It sounds convincing, enough to take to the Headmaster. Basilisks… they have been thought to be extinct in Britain for hundreds of years, maybe even in the world. The last sighting I investigated was a hoax. Well done, Miss Granger. Let us head to the Headmaster’s office then, and inform him.” Hermione had beamed at the praise, and Harry had felt proud of her. Then he had frowned. His best friend had beamed at the famous, good-looking author turned teacher, and he hadn’t liked that. _

_ Hermione and Lockhart had sent the books back to their proper places with a few flicks of their wands and they had gone off. Not even at the door though Harry had heard the hissing voice of the monster again - coming their way! _

_ “I hear the basilisk! It’s headed towards us!” His voice had been muffled by the library’s enchantment, but his friends and Lockhart had heard him. Ron had paled and started to pray to all the gods he could think of, Hermione had trembled, but both had taken their wands out.  _

_ Lockhart had been faster though, grabbing the three children and pushing them back towards the restricted section. “Hurry, if we hide it might pass!” _

_ They hadn’t needed much prompting, and had run to the back of the library, pressing themselves against the ends of the shelves, hopefully hidden from view. Harry and Hermione in the middle, Ron to their right, Lockhart to their left. The author had been shaking as well, sweat covering his face - they knew he had started to join hunting expeditions for his latest books, but always in the company of a experienced wizards or witches. And yet he had taken out his ever-present mirror - Harry had decided then and there not to make fun anymore of Lockhart’s well-groomed appearance - to observe the doors of the library. _

_ “D-Do you think it has gone away?” Ron had asked, whispering despite the muffling spells. _

_ “I don’t know. Maybe,” Harry had answered, holding Hermione close. The young girl was almost panting, and biting on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. _

_ “The doors have just been pushed open. It’s coming inside.” Lockhart’s voice had destroyed what faint hope they had had. The monster had been inside the library, they could not look for it without dying, and the spells that muted their own words inside the room would hide any sound the beast could make until it was upon them. The wizard had started to cast, conjuring rooster after rooster. “Send them away with stinging hexes! If we are lucky one of them will get close enough so its cry will be heard by the monster. It won’t kill them, only a real rooster could, but it should still affect it.” _

_ While the three students had started to cast - missing a few before they managed to steady themselves, Hermione had muttered, quietly so only Harry had heard: “I would have never thought I’d die because a library was too silent.” Then the cries of the stung roosters had made conversation impossible. _

_ Suddenly the shelf Harry and Hermione had hidden behind had started to shake, as well as the next on the other side, and the sound of a gong filled the library. “That’s the alert that sounds when someone tries to remove a protected book without permission! It alerts the librarian!” Hermione had exclaimed.  _

_ It also threw the miscreant back, as Harry had been told. More gongs sounded - the monster had to be stuck between those two shelves, books shaken loose by the impacts, hopefully getting battered by those spells. “Run!” he had shouted. “To the exit!” _

_ The four had scrambled up and had started to run towards the doors while behind them the massive serpent had trashed, caught between the two shelves holding the “magical beasts” section. Eerily, no sound but their own steps and the gongs could be heard even though shelves might be crashing and tumbling behind them. _

_ Lockhart had been the first at the door, reaching out to open it when he suddenly had been propelled sideways, crashing into a table. A slim figure had appeared in front of the doors, smaller even than Hermione, her wand still pointed at Lockhart. _

_ “Ginny?” Ron had exclaimed, incredulously, when his sister had turned towards him, showing red eyes and cruel expression. _

_ “Hah! Did you think you could escape me, Potter?” She had smiled almost manically, and Harry had realized this was not Ron’s sister, but someone possessing her. Ginny had started to say something else, but had been interrupted by Hermione. _

_ “Petrificus Totalus!” The muggleborn witch had cast the spell perfectly, as expected, but the spell splashed harmlessly against a blue shield suddenly protecting the redhead. _

_ “You dare raise your wand against me, mudblood? Crucio!” Ginny’s face had been twisted with hate as she had cast, and Harry had not thought, just reacted, throwing himself between his best friend and the possessed witch, shielding her with his body. Instead of the expected pain he only felt a brief shock as the spell had been reflected towards Ginny, who had cried out with pain for an instant before she had dropped the spell. The girl had been reeling and before she had managed to cast again Ron had tackled her to the ground and wrestled her wand away from her. Hermione’s next body-binding curse had not been deflected, nor had been a stunner from Harry. _

_ With a groan, Lockhart had gotten up. “What happened?” he had asked, shaking his head and blinking, blood seeping through his left sleeve. At that moment the gongs, which had been constantly ringing, had suddenly stopped. _

_ The four had looked at each other for an instant, no one daring to look back. “Run!” And they had run again, through the doors, leaving Ginny or whoever had been possessing her behind. Turning to the right and around a corner, Lockhart had stopped, wand raised and aimed at the floor in front of the doors to the library. When the basilisk had crashed through them, the floor and the doors literally exploded in its face. _

_ The others had only heard an inhuman, monstrous roar, but Harry had heard the curses, the promises of vengeance, and the pained exclamations as the monster had come at them again. Another corner, and a fiery flash had passed them. Only when Harry had heard the trilling song had he understood - Fawkes! The phoenix had been attacking the monster! _

_ Another roar shook the walls. “Eyes! Eyes!” And Harry had understood what Fawkes had been doing. _

_ “It’s blind, Fawkes blinded it!” he had shouted as the reached the next corner, only to see the stairs in front of them turn away just as a sad trilling had sounded behind them, suddenly cut off. “Dead! Kill!” the basilisk had shouted, in triumph. _

_ “He got Fawkes!” Harry had spit out, staring at the empty space where the stairs had been. They had been trapped, no way out. Lockhart had barely managed to run, still hurt from Ginny’s spell. But… “It’s blind, we can trap it here. Send it over the edge!” _

_ Hermione had nodded and had started to cast at once. “Aguamenti!” Harry and Ron had followed her example and had covered the floor with water, which Hermione had turned to slick ice. _

_ “Heard! Kill!” the basilisk had shouted and suddenly Harry had been filled with anger, fear forgotten. _

_ “Then come get me, you stupid snake!” he had shouted - in Parseltongue, as Hermione had told him later. _

_ With another roar the monster had just done that, charging around the corner. Harry had already been moving to the side, and still was almost clipped when the monstrous serpent reached the patch of ice and, unable to stop, had slid over the edge where the stairs had been and had fallen down three floors to crash head first into the stone floor. _

*****

_ As they had soon found out, the fall had killed the beast. Its poison had been sizzling, eating through even the magically treated stone floor, which had cracked from the impact. Hermione had mentioned something about larger animals being more vulnerable to falling, but Harry had not been paying attention. The auror contingent had surrounded the corpse with wards and charms to keep anyone from stepping into the drops of poison splattered around it while the four basilisk slayers had been ushered to Madam Pomfrey to be checked and treated.  _

_ Dumbledore had arrived at the infirmary as well, some time later, with an unconscious Ginny floating behind him. “Another victim of Slytherin’s Monster,” he had stated, handing her over to Pomfrey. He had looked over at Harry and his friends, then had met Lockhart’s eyes until the author had nodded in understanding. ‘Baiting the Basilisk’ would later strongly hint at Ginny having been controlled by some hitherto unknown power, probably similar to the hypnotic eyes of Chameleon Boas, a fact that had vexed Hermione’s sense of intellectual honesty, as her father had explained it to Harry one day after a particular rant of hers. _

_ On the positive side, all three students had received a cut from the profits of Lockhart’s next book - if not as much as his usual partners got, seeing as he had been involved a bit more than usual in dealing with the beast. Technically, Harry had gotten Hermione’s share as well, as was his due as her Patron, but at least he had gotten to spend it on her tuition without hurting her pride. _

_ The encounter had also turned Ron from Harry’s mate into a friend of the two. Sharing lethal dangers tended to make minor annoying personal faults seem unimportant, or so Hermione had claimed, though Harry had wisely not asked if she had meant hers or Ron’s. At least they hadn’t had to go through all the formal etiquette anymore when it was just the three of them, since Ron now counted as “close family” and would not expect such formalities. _

*****

“At least the book royalties are coming in. The Ministry has still not paid out the due compensation for confiscating the corpse of the basilisk.” Hermione’s voice shook Harry out of his reminiscing. “I can’t believe settling things takes that much time, with Lockhart, you and Dumbledore waiting for it.” 

“Sirius said that until the Ministry has found a way to profit from it it won’t be settled.” 

Hermione muttered some very uncomplimentary words about corrupt officials in response. The young witch could be very opinionated about the virtues of an efficient and transparent government. Harry changed the topic before she could could start a rant about the lack of democracy in Wizarding Britain. “It’ll be good to see Remus again.”

As he had hoped, Hermione picked up on it. “Oh, yes! He’s the best DADA teacher we have had so far.”

“Better than Lockhart, five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award?” Harry couldn’t help but tease his best friend about the crush she had had on the professor. 

“You’re just jealous.” Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, grinning widely, before pulling her legs up on the seat to prop up her book with her knees. “Does that mean Sirius will visit his best friend often, and oh so coincidentally will meet his favorite godson as well?”

Harry smiled in response. “Indeed. He stocked up on enough floo powder to fill a trunk.”

“It’ll be good for him. He shouldn’t be alone.” Hermione grew serious again. Harry knew that she thought Sirius needed therapy after his ordeal, but his godfather was adamant in his refusal, claiming he only needed to live it up to make up for the years he lost to Azkaban. Sirius had pulled himself together after escaping that prison, but it taken him weeks until he could think clearly enough to actually contact Remus, instead of sneaking into Hogwarts and trying to capture the rat while hunted by a horde of Dementors. Harry knew his godfather wasn’t really well yet, but he couldn’t do much about it. His own encounter with the Dementors was still fresh in his mind, to imagine having to live around those monsters for 12 years… he shivered.

“Here.” Hermione handed him some chocolate. “Have they found the one who ordered the dementors to attack us yet?” 

Harry shook his head in response, munching. 

His friend scoffed. “I bet they haven’t yet decided what makes them look worse, having Dementors go out of control and attacking the Boy-Who-Lived, or having someone inside the Ministry who had sent Dementors to attack the Boy-Who-Lived and might send them out again at someone else.”

Harry frowned. “You’ve been spending too much time with Sirius, he said exactly the same thing.”

“At least we now know how your power works.” Hermione pushed her errant lock back behind her ear again. 

“No more experiments where poor Harry gets cast at.” Harry grinned, exaggerating his relief. It hadn’t been that bad, but Hermione had been rather obsessed with finding out what his power did, why it had repelled the spells from Quirrell and possessed Ginny, but didn’t save him from Draco’s ambush in 3rd year, or any of her own spells, and her experiments had become more… elaborate over time. 

“Dumbledore knew all along, but never told you about the blood charms until you were about to move in with Sirius. That man and his secrets…” Hermione huffed, annoyance visible on her face. She hated when knowledge was hidden from her.

“To be honest, that was a secret better not revealed to just anyone.” That his protection worked against Voldemort and all his marked followers was good news. That Voldemort was not dead, but trying to return to life, and had attempted so twice by possession, was rather bad news. At least Harry knew his family would be safe at Privet Drive. And seeing Ron’s reaction when he had realized that he had tackled Voldemort himself when he had charged his little sister… Harry had to chuckle. Hermione looked puzzled, so he explained. “I was thinking of Ron’s reaction to hearing about that particular secret.” That caused her to grin as well.

“Speaking of him… it’s a quarter to 11. The Weasleys should arrive any time now.” Hermione stood up and opened the window, leaning out. “I don’t see any redheads yet though… ah, there. They just arrived.” She drew her wand. “Expecto Patronum!” A silvery otter started to swim around in the air in front of their window. The witch sat down, then frowned at Harry’s bemused expression.

“You really like that you finally mastered that spell,” Harry said, smiling gently.

Hermione crossed her arms. “It’s more dignified than shouting. As your retainer, I have certain standards to hold up.”

“And you can show off that you mastered a spell most adults can’t cast.”

“That too.”

Crookshanks chose that moment to make himself be heard, demanding to be let out of his pet carrier. Hermione narrowed her eyes at her familiar as she opened the carrier. “I should feel jealous. You sleep for hours during the trip, and as soon as Ron shows up, you wake up.” As Harry expected, the half-kneazle ignored her complaints and started to strut around the compartment.

A short time the door to the compartment was opened and Ron stuck his head inside. “Ah, there you are!” Behind him, Fred and George waved. Harry saw they were wearing their new open robes over what looked like a skin-tight suit made out of smoke that was shifting through all colors of the rainbow. Ron noticed his expression, and nodded sagely. “They are baiting people to cast finite on them.” 

“Ah.” Harry understood. 

Fred - or George - put a hand on his chest, slightly displacing the smoke around it. “We’d never do such a thing. This is just fitting attire for the start of our Year of Exploration.” 

“Very fitting attire. Form-fitting even,” his twin added.

“It’s the Year of Discovery.” Hermione spoke up, after glaring at her familiar, who was begging Ron for some treats. Then she noticed what clothes the twins were wearing, and blushed slightly. 

“We like the Year of Exploration better. We already know who we are, and what we want to do with our lives. But we have so much to explore.” “And so many.” Laughing, the twins went off to find a compartment of their own - probably sharing it with Lee Jordan and the Gryffindor chasers. Harry couldn’t help but remembering what Sirius had told him of his parent’s Year of Discovery, and blushed slightly before banishing the memory.

Hermione closed the door with a flick of her wand while Ron stashed his trunk before feeding Crookshanks a few more treats. She frowned. “You’re spoiling him.”

Ron was unrepentant. “Only the best for the tomcat who tried his best to defend me against a vile rat.” He sat down, petting the purring half-kneazle. “So, what have you two been up to? Apart from Hermione abusing her Patron’s permission to practise magic all the time.”

Hermione had the grace to blush, before launching into a detailed description of her family’s trip to France.

*****

Pansy Parkinson suppressed the urge to hex the idiot in front of her into silence. Draco Malfoy was going on and on about his vacation, his plans for the year, and his decision to take part in the Triwizard Tournament contrary to his father’s warning - as if the Goblet of Fire would actually pick him as the Champion of Hogwarts. But instead of cursing the fool she smiled, giggled, and flattered him. As stupid as Draco was, convinced of his own superiority despite dozens of examples to the contrary, he made a wonderful tool for her own plans. So easy to manipulate. She’d miss him, well, a bit, once she’d drop him in their 6th year. If he lasted that long - his father could only cover so much for him.

Until then though Draco would serve very well for her plans to deal with a few … not rivals, annoyances. Sometimes she wondered if anyone knew just how much of Draco’s blunders were orchestrated by her.

******* **


	3. The Goblet of Fire

**Chapter 3: The Goblet of Fire**

Draco Malfoy sat in his compartment, across from his girlfriend and future wife Pansy Parkinson. Provided he did not find a better bride, of course. He was still young, after all, and the Year of Discovery might change his mind. It would devastate the poor girl, but he had to think of his family first. Crabbe and Goyle sat at the door, acting as bodyguards.

Normally he’d plan his visit to Potter’s compartment, preparing the best insults to throw at the upstart and his mudblood, and their uncouth redhead, enjoying the way they blustered and fumed when faced with superior wit, class and status, but unfortunately, he would have to go without such entertainment this time.

Maybe it was for the best - after the events he had taken part in after the Quidditch World Cup, a mere verbal confrontation might be too tame for him now that he had been blooded, and he might not control himself sufficiently, should wands get drawn. After all, he had left the realms of mere squabbles and children’s hexes behind that night, when he had donned the sacred mask of the cause, and had drawn blood and more at the side of his father.

He smiled, remembering the screams, the smell of blood, and the useless pleading he had heard, and caused, that night. Pansy probably thought he was smiling at her, the foolish girl. Though while she was not the brightest witch of her generation, far from it if he was honest, even though he’d never admit that in front of his peers, she was quite attractive. Equally important, she knew her place. She never contradicted him and always supported him. She would make a wonderful wife for a Head of Family, even if that might not turn out to be him, should he find an equally well-mannered and attractive girl with maybe a bit more wit to her.

But until then he’d enjoy her company.

*********

“Unfortunately the Channel Tunnel is not yet open for passengers so we took a plane to fly back.” Hermione expected Ron to ask what the Channel Tunnel was, but she was disappointed.

“Dad is still trying to find out how muggle planes stay in the air without magic. It just makes no sense.” The redhead shook his head, still petting Crookshanks. Hermione thought he probably didn’t know what the Channel was. Most wizards apparated, flooed and portkeyed around. And she had had such a good explanation ready… She noticed that no red hair was covering Ron’s new robes. Decent ones too, high quality enchantments, but subtly done - a far cry from his first set of new robes last year, bought right after the gold from ‘Baiting the Basilisk’ had arrived. The only way those could have been more obviously expensive would have been with their price tag displayed on the chest.

“There are books available which explain the principles well.” She refrained from pursing her lips. Mister Weasley was a nice man, but for all his fascination with muggles, he had a patronizing manner that hadn’t been received well by her parents or herself. She snuck a glance at Harry. He was sitting next to her, at the window, across from Ron and Crookshanks the traitor, who was still sitting in the redhead’s lap. Her Patron had a book on his lap, but hadn’t read it during her story, despite having heard the story before. Unlike other years, his robes were not wrinkled - the spells on them prevented that. Hermione still looked him over, just in case.

“Speaking of France, when will the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive?” Harry spoke up, closing his book.

“They’ll arrive at the end of September. Enough time for us to get settled in before they arrive, enough time for them to get settled in before the drawing,” Hermione answered. She had studied the schedule of the new term extensively as soon as she had heard that the next Triwizard Tournament would be held there. They had missed the last one; it had been held at Durmstrang during their first year. In three years, Beauxbatons would be hosting it.

“Are you entering your name for the drawing, mate?” Ron asked, again surprising Hermione. She had expected him to start talking about Krum, who would be arriving with the students from Durmstrang. But then, neither Harry nor Ron had mentioned the World Cup Final yet. Or the attack afterwards.

Harry shook his head. “No. We thought about it, but decided against it. The tasks are too dangerous and challenging for a 4th year student.” 

That wasn’t exactly the real reason, Hermione knew. The tasks were traditionally not more dangerous than a professional Quidditch match - there was a high probability of participants getting hurt, but very few deaths occured. That hadn’t been the case when the tournament started, of course. The accounts of those read like war reports. But if Harry entered his name as a mere 4th year he was likely to be seen as reckless, arrogant, or flighty. Appearances mattered, and as Head of Family and a Patron, he had to act more mature than his age. He’d have a better chance of winning if he entered in three years, with three more years at Hogwarts under his belt. Further, while a minor or even petty issue, he’d had been adamant that he’d rather not give Malfoy and others the opportunity to claim he had been judged and found wanting by the goblet.

“And as a Champion you’d have to put up your Firebolt as your stake in it.” Ron nodded at Harry. “Would be a daft thing to do when competing with 7th years. Besides, there is the Dueling Competition and the Quidditch Tournament to take part in.” Ron’s eyes lit up at the thought of two Quidditch tournaments at Hogwarts that year. “And the Curse Breaking Competition,” he added, with a nod to Hermione.

“It’s tradition that the stakes are ransomed back to the other participants by the winning Champion, but it would be a waste of gold either way.” Hermione leaned back, slipped out of her shoes and pulled her feet up on the bench again. The rules didn’t say anything about that tradition, of course. Like so much in the Magical World, one couldn’t trust the laws and rules without knowing the unwritten customs and traditions.

“Well, we’ve got Quidditch, and with Viktor Krum!” Ron leaned forward a bit, which caused the traitor on his lap to meow in protest.

“If he’s chosen as Durmstrang’s Champion he won’t be taking part in the accompanying competitions of the Triwizard Tournament.” Hermione took the wind out of Ron’s sails before he could gather enough speed for one of his enthusiastic rants about Quidditch in general, and Krum in particular. “That is, if he is chosen. There might be a more qualified student among its delegation.”

Ron’s mouth was open, but he didn’t form words for half a minute, then he sat back with a frown. “Oh, you! Now I have to hope there’s a better wizard in Durmstrang than Krum just so I can see him play again!”

Hermione giggled, then added: “He’ll have to train regularly too, to keep in shape for his next season, so you’ll see him flying anyway.”

“That’s not the same.” Ron was only partially mollified.

Hermione shrugged, then stretched some, twisting around so she could lean her back against Harry’s shoulder. The locking spell on the door would allow her enough time to sit up in case someone paid them a visit - it wouldn’t do to fuel rumors by acting to familiarly with Harry in public, after all. She suppressed the anger she usually felt when thinking about the role she had to play in public. Dutiful, meek retainer. Following her Patron around, ready to serve, grateful for the chance to be instructed in the ways of polite society and cultured folks. Some days not even Harry’s presence and support could calm her down and she had to go and vent, cast spells to wreck some conjured things or rubbish until she felt better. And yet it was her best shot at a better life.

Hermione changed the topic before Harry and Ron could get lost in Quidditch details. “Do you think we’ll get Mad-Eye Moody again as guest teacher?” Last year the grizzled retired Auror had filled in for Professor Lupin once a month. Hermione still couldn’t believe no one else had caught up on Lupin’s condition - or curse.

“I sure hope so! He’s great - all practise, no theory! And no homework!” Ron sounded particularly enthusiastic about the last part, but from his grin and sly glance at her, Hermione thought he was just trying to get a rise out of her.

“Remus isn’t just theory and homework either,” Harry defended his godfather’s best friend. 

Hermione nodded. Both of them owed the cursed teacher their lives, or souls, though she did not like to consider that particular aspect - if not for Remus teaching Harry the Patronus charm, both of them would have died that year. The young witch shivered, remembering the horrid feeling when they found themselves surrounded by dozens of those demons, at the shores of Black Lake. She had collapsed, caught in nightmarish memories, barely able to keep a grip on her wand, but Harry had managed to drive them away with an immensely strong corporeal Patronus, a gleaming stag that had charged the monsters and driven them away. And it had filled her with warmth, prevented her from drowning in her own dark memories. Hunching over, she suddenly felt an arm around her shoulders, then she was pulled into Harry’s side. Resting her head on his shoulder she took a few deep breaths.

“Well, at least with the twins in their Year of Exploration, we shouldn’t see as many pranks from them as last year.” Ron was looking out of the window while changing the topic. Hermione was grateful for the gesture - she felt embarrassed by her own reaction to that particular memory. She would have liked to stay where she was for a bit longer, but that would have been impolite, so she shifted again, sitting up.

“Unless of course the twins think they can impress girls with their pranks,” Harry remarked, to Ron’s visible chagrin. 

He was probably right, Hermione silently agreed. From what she had observed in her time at Hogwarts, the 6th and 7th years tended to show off their skill with magic whenever possible. She hadn’t ever said so aloud, but it was a kind of mating behaviour - wizards and witches putting their best sides, or what they considered their best sides, on display in an attempt to attract their preferred sex. It was a bit more complicated, of course, but there was a reason the older students had single rooms. Harry at least would be glad to be able to go to bed without selective silencing charms to deal with Ron’s snoring.

Ron leaned back, hitting his head on the cushioned backrest a couple times. “Merlin’s Beard! I’ll need to keep my guard up at all times!” He was right too - with Percy having graduated and started at the Ministry already, Ron and Ginny were the only ones left at Hogwarts the twins could target with pranks and keep it ‘in the family’. They’d not touch Ginny, of course. Not after Ginny’s first year. 

Hermione reached out and patted Ron’s thigh with a grin. “Don’t worry. We can study lots of spells to help with that.”

“Ah, yes, thank you.” Again he surprised her - she would have expected him to balk at that. 

Before she could ponder that further, Harry cut in: “I think we can expect them to crank it up a notch or two.” He smiled a bit lopsidedly.

“Do you base that expectation on your experiences with your godfather?” Hermione asked, with a glint in her eyes. Harry had been remarkably close-mouthed about some of those lessons. She knew she should not pry, but couldn’t help herself.

“Ah, yes,” he said, wincing a bit.

She narrowed her eyes - an opening!

*****

Harry almost sighed when he saw Hermione lean forward with that expression in her eyes. When faced with knowledge kept from her, the girl was very … determined. He deflected her questions by handing her a book from Sirius’s family library she had seen, but hadn’t managed to read yet during her stay at Grimmauld Place. He felt a bit bad about implying that this was what Sirius had taught him, but there was no way he was telling her what Sirius had revealed to him in those private talks. If she knew what Sirius’s ancestors had been up to as Patrons of pretty muggleborn witches or wizards, she’d wreck the compartment with accidental magic. Or worse, stare at him as if he was one of those ancestors. He remembered the expression in her eyes back in their second year, when he had lost his temper during an argument between them, and had ordered her to shut up. He had truly meant it, and so the magic of the Patron Oath had enforced his order, for the first and so far last time. Hermione had been shocked when she had been unable to speak. Shocked, hurt and betrayed. It had taken weeks until they had gotten over that, until she had trusted him again, and he had never forgotten it since. That made the dreams he sometimes had, which involved him and Hermione, worse though. He’d never do that to her, of course. But knowing that he could do it, as her Patron… he pushed that thought away. Buried it under guilt.

Another thing he would not talk about with Hermione was what Sirius had told him about his parents. The trouble they had had due to their lack of a Magical Marriage, since their muggle marriage had no legal effects or consequences in the Magical World. That his mother had almost left his father over that. That was both too personal, and would be too close to Hermione’s own future, should she ever fall in love with a pureblood.

And of course there were the tales of Sirius’s own “Year of Discovery”, as even the younger generation had called it back then. That wasn’t something one shared with a girl. Or with anyone else, Harry had decided. Maybe he’d share some with Ron, when his friend started to tell tales of his older brothers.

He wasn’t sure how serious Sirius had been, anyway. As much as he loved his godfather, it was clear that twelve years in Azkaban had severely affected the man, and that he had not yet recovered from that. Hermione had said that she doubted he’d ever fully recover, especially without therapy. Harry disagreed, but even he wasn’t sure if that was not just wishful thinking.

Sirius had taken weeks after his escape from Azkaban to recover his wits enough to think and plan, after he had blindly rushed to the Dursleys, and then started towards Hogwarts. Months to recover enough to stop spending more time as a dog than as a wizard. To write to Remus, informing him of Wormtail’s survival and current location. It had taken months, true, but his godfather had managed. Hermione had acknowledged that, but had claimed that it had happened because Sirius had had an urgent need to recover, to save Harry. Harry almost was glad that they hadn’t found yet whoever had sent the Dementors after him - it might give Sirius a reason to keep recovering.

The incident at the World Cup certainly had had an effect. Harry’s robes were almost glowing with protective spells. He and Hermione had been taught a number of spells as well, Black Family spells. Not even Remus had made much of a fuss about teaching them such spells. And Sirius would visit Remus very often during the term - and with him, Harry.

He glanced over to Ron, who was reading the latest ‘Quidditch Weekly’, then to Hermione, who was, unsurprisingly, lost in the book he had given her. The pendants of her torc swayed gently with each of her movements. They should update the spells on the necklace; so far it only allowed her to sense his presence, and him to signal her, but Hermione wanted to add spells herself. His young wand, friend, was sometimes too proud for her own good, despite all her claims of being pragmatic.

He leaned back and stared out of the window, watching the countryside change as the train made its way to Hogwarts. Their friends and acquaintances would visit, as usual. Neville, Luna, the Quidditch team. A few ‘fans’, maybe. He doubted Malfoy would make his regular visit bearing insults and threats. Sirius becoming the Head of Family for the Blacks had changed things. Money mattered, and Sirius had tons of it. So for now Harry enjoyed the quiet. Soon he’d be back at Hogwarts, where privacy was scarce even for a wizard.

*****

Hermione looked out of the window, next to the door of the train. Hogsmeade Station was the usual chaotic mess after the Hogwarts Express had arrived. Hagrid was shouting loudly to collect the first years - it was a testament to his good nature that none of the young students fled from him, instead of heading towards him, in her opinion. The older students were forming a big throng of black robes slowly moving towards the waiting carriages. Hermione herself, Harry and Ron were waiting for the majority of the students to get underway. It would be a bit too dangerous for Harry in the middle of a crowd, too easy for anyone with a wand to curse him in the back - Hogsmeade was not Hogwarts, after all. Not that Hogwarts was as safe as people claimed.

She saw Fay Dunbar step out of the train. Most of the students around her ignored her, some even laughed - as usual. Fay was a Purist, a member of a sect of Wizard and Witches who believed magic should not be wasted on frivolous things such as convenience, but saved for important, life saving or changing tasks. So the girl - her room mate for three years now - didn’t wear enchanted robes, or use cosmetic spells. Nor spells to protect her trunk or bed from pranks. The perfect victim for bullies who took offense at her views, even though she never tried to force them on anyone else. Even if she could get a bit preachy about them.

Hermione couldn’t stand such behaviour, so she had done something about it. Though Fay hadn’t thanked Hermione for putting up some weak wards that covered both her and Fay’s bed and trunk, she hadn’t asked her to remove them either, so Hermione figured the other witch accepted them even if she couldn’t acknowledge them without violating her beliefs. Good enough, in her opinion.

She could understand why many witches and wizards scorned the Purists. The wizard economy ran largely on superfluous magic. Cosmetic spells, charms on clothes, charms on household items, all those spells needed to be maintained, replaced, upgraded. A large part of the population not employed by the Ministry worked in those fields. If there was no demand for such spells, there would be an economic crisis. Maybe - Hermione was no economist herself, and Magic tended to wreck havoc on muggle models.

“See you at the feast!” Luna Lovegood passed the trio together with Aicha Antar, another Ravenclaw 3rd year. Hermione had heard Aicha hated the school robes and wore her traditional clothes until the last moment. A small, glittering figure, barely 10 centimeter tall, flitted after the dark-skinned witch. Hermione would have thought it was a sort of pixie, but Aicha claimed it was a genie from her homeland, bound to serve her family. Luna agreed with Aicha, but Hermione wasn’t certain if that was not simply out of loyalty to her best friend. Although the tales she had heard of Cho Chang’s ‘accidents’ when the older Ravenclaw had tried to bully Luna certainly went beyond what Hermione thought a pixie was capable of, and both Luna and Aicha had had perfect alibis during each of those events.

Finally the way was clear, so to speak, and the three friends made their way towards the last carriage. Hermione opened the door for Harry. She didn’t see anyone watching, but that didn’t mean anything. She really didn’t want any rumors about her not showing proper deference to her Patron to spread. Much less rumors of her being intimate with him.

*****

The sorting had happened as usual. Hermione hadn’t seen any true muggleborn among the new first years, unlike last year. She looked over to the Hufflepuff table, where the freshly-minted second year Matthew Amsler was seated. The witch had tried to take the wizard under her wing, at least a bit, last year, but had given up quickly. The Hufflepuffs were a closely-knit bunch and had viewed her with a bit of suspicion, and he’d have a Patron of his own soon enough. Had one now, actually - Darlene Abbot, a former Hufflepuff witch, and Hannah’s Grandmother and Head of Family. A good choice, by all accounts, but Hermione couldn’t help feeling that Matthew would have been better off with someone like Harry. Someone who understood the muggle world and did not expect the muggleborn to forget about it. Not that she or Harry showed that, of course - in public they acted more formal than just about everyone else.

With the last first year sorted, the feast arrived on the tables, and everyone turned to the Headmaster. Even the first years knew what was coming, seeing as there was no true muggleborn among them. Dumbledore stood up and raised his goblet.

“At the beginning of a new term we are gathered to give the gods their due so they will bless us with a fruitful, peaceful year.” The staff members and all the students took hold of their goblets and stood up as well, following his example.

“Janus.” He dipped the goblet. Wine started to fall towards the floor, but vanished before it reached the stones. “Bless us with a good start.” 

Hermione could feel her skin tingling when she dipped her own goblet, and watched red wine drip from it, the liquid vanishing in sparks before it reached the floor.

“Hecate. Let our knowledge of magic grow.” 

The wine kept falling, more than her goblet could have held. The tingling intensified and the young witch felt a source of warmth, of heat, grow in her chest until she felt drops of sweat appear on her skin.

“Apollo. Keep us healthy.” 

Hermione’s hair was almost floating now, small sparks dancing around the tips, until the wine finally stopped falling.

The Headmaster sat down, followed by the staff and the students. While most started to ‘tuck in’, as Dumbledore had told them to, Hermione took a few deep breaths, waiting until her skin had stopped tingling and her hair and chest felt normal again. Glancing around, she spotted Luna and Aicha as well as Harry in a similar state, eyes closed and breathing deeply.

She didn’t know why they were affected like this, or what affected them. She had looked into it, of course. Most of the Wizards and Witches believed it was the effect of a shared ritual dating back into the time when the Celts and Romans lived in Britain. Most books she had read skirted around the question whether or not there were gods - the British Wizards had rejected Christianity when it turned on them during the witch hunts, and adopted the Old Gods again, but the number of true faithful was rather low, or so Hermione thought. And for all her intellectual curiosity the witch had shied away from finding out who might be in the right about such matters. Religion, in her opinion, was a very dangerous subject to explore.

A nudge from Harry reminded her that the feast had begun, and she started to eat.

*****

Hermione stood in front of Hogwarts, like all other students, waiting for the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to arrive. To her right was Harry, and next to him stood Ron. Hermione had been researching the event. Beauxbatons would arrive with a flying carriage and Durmstrang with a ship traveling under the sea. When the Triwizard Tournament had started the delegations lived in the magical vehicles for the duration of their stay as well, but these days, the hosting school prepared suitable suites for the visitors, and the only reason portkeys were not used was tradition. That, and the nauseating way portkey travel worked, especially if going that far. Hermione knew that from her own experience. Taking one to the World Cup had been bad enough, and that had been a short trip.

That Hogwarts had switched from their own flying carriage to the Hogwarts Express to transport their delegation in the 19th century was still considered as a blatant breach of tradition by some wizards. Privately Hermione wondered if the Hogwarts Express would travel through the Channel Tunnel when the next tournament would be held in three years, or make its own track, as it had done before. Thanks to her academic and other merits, she was likely to be part of the Hogwarts delegation and would find out then, unless she would rather focus on her N.E.W.T.s then. Glancing at Harry, she amended her statement to ‘if Harry wouldn’t rather focus on his N.E.W.T.s’. Which she didn’t think he would. Even though it might better for him.

One of the younger students let out an excited yell, pointing up into the sky. The older students tried to act more blasé, but turned and looked anyway. There, a speck was growing rapidly in size, soon discernable as a huge carriage drawn by winged horses - Abraxans. Hagrid had been very happy about being able to care for them. Almost as happy as he was about the Headmistress of Beauxbatons arriving - it was a barely-kept secret that they two half-giants were in a relationship.

The carriage landed safely and softly, Hagrid already taking the reins of the horses - he had to be used to handling them, as long as he had been at Hogwarts. Then the students of Beauxbatons appeared, led by the tallest witch that Hermione had ever seen. Her giant blood was as obvious as Hagrid’s, but mentioning it would have been impolite, so everyone ignored it as a matter of course.

Hermione paid more attention to the students while Dumbledore greeted his colleague warmly. The French Wizards and witches were clad in blue robes of various styles, but sharing the exact same color and material - enchanted silk, she guessed. Compared to the Hogwarts school robes they were, in her opinion, more elegant, if not quite as daring as some of the clothes worn by the 6th and 7th years at Hogwarts under their open robes. They were as heavily enchanted though - Hermione could spot a number of spells right away. She wondered if Beauxbatons had different, more egalitarian uniforms for the lower years, like Hogwarts, or if their true muggleborns would stand out even more for the lack of enchanted clothes in their first year. She couldn’t tell, since the two dozen students were all older, and asking without offending anyone might be difficult.

“Wow! Look at that bird! She’s magnificent!” Ron exclaimed suddenly, together with a dozen or more students echoing his sentiments. Hermione blinked. Ah, a veela. That explained it. She glanced at Harry, who had a faint grin on his face, probably remembering Ron’s reaction to the dancing veelas at the World Cup. That had been amusing.

The French had barely entered the castle when the Ship of Durmstrang rose from the depths of Black Lake, water running down the enchanted sails and wooden hull without touching either. Hermione recognized the design as a schooner. Probably ‘adapted’ half a century earlier than the Hogwarts Express. A bit odd for a Bulgarian school, or so she thought. Soon a plank was lowered, and the students and teachers disembarked. Dumbledore greeted his counterpart cordially, but with less warmth than he had greeted Madam Maxime, or so Hermione thought. It could be that the Headmaster was just more charming towards witches, but it probably was because Karkaroff had been a Death Eater. He escaped prison when he gave up all other Death Eaters he knew, but it would be enough of a reason to keep one’s distance to the man, from what she knew of his actions in the war.

Durmstrang’s students were wearing three different sets of uniforms. One identical set each for the three countries the school was drawing students from - Magical Poland, Romania and Bulgaria - Hermione realized. All wore the same dark cloak, with Durmstrang’s heraldry on it. They formed three columns, eight each, and marched into the castle with stoic faces. No veelas among them, Hermione noticed - despite the large contingent of them at the World Cup. It seemed what she had heard about that school only allowing pureblood students had been true.

Ron, as was expected, had almost gotten a cramp in his neck trying to look at Krum for as long as possible, and was still excited, almost gushing about his idol when the three took their seats at the Gryffindor table while the visitors were shown their new quarters. “Have you seen him? He’ll surely be chosen in the drawing!”

Hermione and Harry exchanged amused looks before nodding at their friends words. It did look like it'd be a good year.

*****

Harry Potter did not like Samhain. He hadn’t liked Halloween either, before he had learned about the existence of magic and had attended Hogwarts. It was the day his parents had died. Had been murdered by a madman, with a traitor’s help. At least Samhain, unlike Halloween, was no party, but a sombre celebration to honour the dead and Dis Pater, the God of the Underworld. All the ghosts of Hogwarts gathered in the Great Hall for the occasion, at their own table in the centre of the room, and were served the same feast as everyone else, although theirs rotted in seconds on their table. Apparently, or so Hermione had said, this was needed so they could at least get a hint of taste from it. Harry wasn’t in the mood to care.

According to legends, to kill someone on Samhain was both easier than on any other day, since the borders between the living and the dead were at their weakest that day, and far more dangerous, since Dis Pater watched more closely how people died, and would be punishing a murderer more swiftly and painfully. It certainly fit the events that cost Harry his parents, or so he thought - Voldemort was obliterated right after he had slain Harry’s mother, minutes at most after James Potter had been murdered. Though as he knew, Voldemort had escaped death, and the betrayer of his parents, Wormtail, had escaped justice for 12 years, until Remus had caught him thanks to Sirius’s letter, and the sniveling coward had been tried and executed for his crimes. Dis Pater certainly had not been paying attention in that case, Harry thought, a tad blasphemously.

Hermione and Ron were sitting next to him and across from him, respectively, less talkative than usual, even for the occasion. They knew about his thoughts on the day, and respected it. Unlike others, Harry thought with a frown when he spotted a unfortunately very familiar wizard approaching him. Draco Malfoy, with Goyle and Crabbe and his wanna-be wife Parkinson in tow. Hermione put her hand on his thigh, under the table and out of sight of the Slytherins, both to give him her support, and to keep him from making a scene.

“Greetings, Mister Potter.” Malfoy gave him the barest nod, and didn’t hide his sneer, but he observed the forms of polite society just enough to avoid getting called out on it. Not that Harry could do much even if Malfoy had crossed that line anyway. Children, including students until they graduated, were judged far more leniently than adults, while Harry himself, as both a Patron and Head of Family, was expected to uphold the higher standards of those positions. A fact Malfoy had exploited a lot in the last few years.

“Mister Malfoy.” Harry didn’t even nod in response, just stared at the blond.

“I wanted to offer my condolences. Your parents died on this day, did they not?” Malfoy’s smile belied his words and made his true opinion more than clear. Ron was about to stand up and prove the cliches about redheads and their temper true, but suddenly jerked and sat down, glaring at Hermione. The witch had likely kicked him under the table - her wand hand was still on Harry’s thigh. Harry wanted to stand up and curse the ponce. Smash his teeth in until he couldn’t sneer or smile anymore, but he controlled himself - with some help from Hermione, whose fingernails were now digging into his thighs, distracting him from his own rising temper.

“You have my thanks, as heartfelt as your own words, for this, Mister Malfoy. Please be assured that I will not forget this occasion, even if years should pass until I have the opportunity to repay you this kindness.” Harry smiled - technically; Hagrid, more in tune with most animals, would have seen the baring of teeth for what it was - and saw with no small amount of satisfaction that Malfoy’s own smile slipped, and some fear briefly flickered over his face.

The Slytherin nodded tersely at him and turned to return to his own table. No remarks about Hermione, no needling Ron - Harry counted this as a victory. A small one, but still a victory. He saw Parkinson already hanging on Malfoy’s arm, now that he could be reasonably sure Harry wouldn’t start hexing him, and subtly shook his head. That girl had less brains than she had taste, hanging all over Malfoy. It was a small miracle that she had not been caught so far in the backlash of one of Malfoy’s failed schemes. Most thought she was after Malfoy’s money, and was staking her claim early enough so the Year of Discovery wouldn’t throw a wrench into her plans, but Hermione thought Parkinson honestly loved or at least lusted after Malfoy. She reasoned that the Parkinsons were rich as well, and Pansy had a good shot at becoming Head of Family. If not for her demonstrated bad taste and bad judgement, she would be the one with suitors hanging all over her.

Harry didn’t really care. He had enough responsibilities already to hold his attention, even with his godfather now exonerated and supporting him. Or because, on some days. That man was almost never serious enough.

Hermione withdrew her hand, and whispered “Sorry”, just loud enough that he could hear it. 

He simply smiled at her, and she smiled back while Ron, calmed down, whistled: “Damn, Harry, that shook him. I bet he’s dreading the time he graduates, once you can actually call him out.”

Hermione glared at Ron, but didn’t call him out on his language. To do so in public to a friend of her Patron would have been quite the faux pas. Still, there were publically acceptable ways to reply open to her. “Duels are illegal, Ron.”

“That’s a law no one enforces.” Ron made a dismissive gesture.

“Unless someone pays enough.” Hermione really had become rather disenchanted with the judicial system of Wizarding Britain, Harry knew. She wasn’t wrong, but as the Boy-Who-Lived, and godson of Sirius Black, he could be quite certain that no one would prosecute him for upholding his honour in the traditional way. Not that he planned to call out Malfoy as soon as they had finished their N.E.W.T.s. But sometimes he imagined it.

*****

The day after Samhain was the traditional time the Triwizard Champions were selected by the Goblet of Fire. The oldest records claimed it was so the artifact could confer with the souls of the ancestors of the candidates, before it judged their progeny. Harry wasn’t certain if that was true. Hermione thought it didn’t make much sense, but he was of the opinion it might have made a lot of sense for people holding a wizard’s lineage and blood in such high regard as those who had thought up such a tournament - especially one as bloody and deadly as the original one had been. Ron had said, flippantly, the Goblet simply had to make sure that there was enough room in the afterlife for the Champions who’d die.

The three were sitting at their usual spot, with a good view of the other tables. Hufflepuff was unchanged, but Slytherin’s table had been expanded some, to seat the Durmstrang delegation. That wasn’t a surprise - Slytherin was the only House at Hogwarts who was exclusively composed of purebloods, as was Durmstrang. The students from Beauxbatons were sitting at the Ravenclaw table, also expanded, though the reasons for that choice were not as evident. Maybe it was simply because of the House colors matching with Beauxbatons’ blue? One never knew with wizards, after all.

Contact with the foreign students had been rarer than expected, at least for Harry and his friends. Some chatting while heading to the next class, some conversations in the library, nothing of consequence, barely above talking about the weather or asking to pass the salt at the table. Hopefully that would change after the Champions were chosen, when the tournament would start. Hermione had been itching for a chance to try out her translation charms, or practise her French.

He looked at the goblet, a large artifact, sitting on a pedestal in the centre, before the staff table. Two Aurors in red robes guarded it at all times, to make sure it wasn’t tampered with - or stolen. In the past, candidates simply dropped pieces of parchment with their name and stake in it, but these days, teachers vetted the entries, to ensure everyone participating had permission from their Head of Family, and that the stakes offered were actually valuable enough. One wouldn’t want to get judged as a cheater, after all, by an artifact forged in times where capital punishment was the most common punishment.

While the names of candidates were supposed to be secret, the Hogwarts rumor mill was working as quickly as expected. Malfoy, for all his bragging, hadn’t gotten permission from his father to enter. That had been a surprise, actually - the loss of face caused by this was far bigger than not getting chosen as Champion would have been. Harry himself had been asked several times if he planned to enter, but his explanation that he’d be foolish to enter his name as a 4th year to compete with 7th years had been accepted easily.

Dessert had been served and eaten, and the students were getting restless, the conversations louder. Dumbledore still took a bit of time, enjoying his own dessert, before he stood up. At a gesture of him, the room quieted down, the lights dimmed, and he walked over to the Goblet of Fire.

The artifact was filled with an eerie fire, which was far more visible now when it was providing most of the light in the Great Hall. The Headmaster pointed his wand at it, and after a brief pause the fire flared up, forming a pillar of blue flames, almost reaching the enchanted ceiling before breaking up into sparks and motes. The impressive display had many of the students gasp even before they realized that one of the sparks grew instead of fading, and floated down to the outstretched hand of Dumbledore, to form a piece of parchment. The first candidate had been chosen.

Dumbledore’s voice filled the Great hall easily. Maybe a silent sonorous, or an enchantment of the Hall, Harry speculated. He could ask Hermione afterwards, if he really wanted to know. She’d either tell him, or research the question with ‘Hogwarts: A History’. “Beauxbatons Champion is Fleur Delacour. Her stake is her grandmother’s pendant.”

Applause rose as the French Veela stood up. She slowly walked towards Dumbledore, a beaming smile on her face that certainly would break a few more hearts. Harry thought she looked relieved as she took her place next to Dumbledore. 

“That pendant must be a family heirloom. Likely very old, and heavily enchanted, or it wouldn’t have passed muster,” Hermione commented while the applause quieted down. Harry nodded in agreement.

Another pillar of fire shot to the ceiling. This time the audience was expecting it. “Durmstrang’s Champion is Viktor Krum. His stake is his “Blitzschlag” broom.”

Applause filled the room as the star seeker stood up. Ron was clapping frantically. “That’s a custom made broom from Daedalus, a Prussian Broom Tuning firm. Even more expensive than your Firebolt, Mate,” he explained as he sat down again, eyes alight with excitement. “I didn’t think I’d ever see one, they came out right after the World Cup.”

And the last pillar of fire rose. Harry followed the floating, growing spark as if it was a snitch. Hogwarts’ Champion would be chosen now.

When Dumbledore hesitated just a second after the parchment had formed into his hand, Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Something just went wrong, he knew it. The Headmaster was rarely surprised.

“Hogwarts’ Champion is Harry Potter. His stake is his retainer, Hermione Granger.”

Harry gasped. He turned his head towards Hermione. His best friend was staring at him, her expression frozen in shock and hurt. Her lips were moving without forming words. Meanwhile whispered conversations rapidly grew in volume until the Slytherin table started clapping, jeering even. Students from the other tables, at first a few, then then more, joined in. The noise drowned out his curse.

“Fuck.”

*****

Late that night Albus Dumbledore was sitting in his office, petting Fawkes. The phoenix trilled softly, in between attempts to groom his companion’s beard. His song as well as his antics did soothe the Headmaster’s mood, which had been thoroughly soured by the evening’s events.

Harry Potter had been chosen as Hogwarts’ Champion. Despite not having entered his name. Albus believed the boy’s claim. It had not been his handwriting on the parchment, he wouldn’t have been able to pass a parchment through the seal on the goblet, only the Headmaster could open that, and Harry would never name Miss Granger as his stake. Albus was certain of that.

Harry Potter might have become the epitome of a pureblood wizard, following the old forms and manners better than some of Albus’s more conservative contemporaries, but he didn’t consider Miss Granger beneath him, much less a piece of property to be wagered. The Headmaster had seen that himself. He wasn’t proud of his spying on his students, but he had had to be sure Harry wouldn’t abuse his power over the young witch.

The old wizard sighed. Young Harry certainly had not turned out as he had expected, being raised by his muggle family. Not that there had been any other option for Harry than his blood family, not by law, and not by need. The Blood Charms needed that connection to keep the boy safe. Lily herself had arranged that, for Harry and her family, in case she and James would die. That Harry wouldn’t have grown up in the Magical World wouldn’t have made her pause, or so Albus thought - the bright young witch hadn’t had the best opinion of the traditions of Wizarding Britain.

He should have visited the family himself, he thought. Openly, that is. But then, what could he have done? Telling the boy he was a wizard before he could understand how important secrecy was would not have been one of his smarter decisions. One couldn’t trust children in the muggle world to keep such a secret. No, his hands had been bound there, even though the boy had grown up ignorant of his heritage. That he could have fixed himself easily enough, once the boy had returned to the Magical World. He’d even have started on that right after the Hogwarts letter, if not for Nicolas needing his help, rather urgently, that summer. Though, in hindsight again, he should have asked Minerva to teach the boy, no matter her stern manners. Or maybe Filius. He closed his eyes. He knew he should delegate more, but… old habits did not change easily. Nor did old people, and he was older than most. Minerva in particular had taken quite some time to come to terms with Harry’s and Miss Granger’s decision not to heed his advice.

He had consoled himself with the thought that Harry’s ignorance had also offered a unique opportunity. The hero who had saved Wizarding Britain, with dozens of books written about him, a celebrity on par with Albus himself right after his victory over Grindelwald, could have made Wizarding Britain just a bit more liberal, a bit more open to muggleborns, and the wonders of the muggle world. Would have, could have - if not for that troll, and the life debt it had caused.

Miss Granger had been so afraid, so hasty, panicking even, and he hadn’t managed to find the right words to placate her. Too much of a gap between an old wizard and a young muggleborn, he had realized after the fact. Or rather, he hadn’t trusted her to understand his own thoughts, her being a mere child. And he had - vastly - overestimated her faith in authorities. Another mistake he had made. He still wasn’t happy that the boy had become the girl’s Patron. The responsibility he had had to shoulder… a single mistake, easily made by another child, could have ruined her and his life. Harry had managed, but the situation had forced him to grow up far quicker than a child should have had to. And it hadn’t been needed, in his opinion.

Lucius Malfoy would have been unlikely to become Miss Granger’s Patron, after Albus would have explained to the man what kind of scrutiny this would bring from himself, and what risks due to the life debt. And even if… Lucius would have been unlikely to harm the child. The Head of the Malfoy Family was smart. Far smarter than his son, that Dumbledore was sure of. He would have had far more to gain by treating her well, by fulfilling society’s expectations of a benevolent Patron. He would have improved his standing with the more liberal families as well as the conservative ones, would had gained more contacts, and the stain of his… past associations… would have been removed. Further, young Miss Granger would likely have proven quite a handful, judging from her life so far, maybe even enough to influence Draco into changing for the better.

Albus sighed again. It was all moot now. With Voldemort back, in whatever form he might have taken, earlier than he had expected, the situation had changed. If anything, the events at the World Cup had shown that. Death Eaters openly wearing their masks again, attacking and killing people… The Ministry painted it as just some prank that went out of control, but Albus suspected there was far more to it, but hadn’t spoken out. Voldemort might have set that up to make him overextend himself, to raise his concerns about Voldemort’s return in public, only to see the culprits caught and found ignorant of the Dark Lord. It wouldn’t have been the first time Voldemort had used such a ploy, and it would have weakened Albus’s influence.

The old wizard was sure that the Goblet had been manipulated to choose Harry, by Voldemort or one of his followers. What he didn’t know was the reason for this. Was it another attempt to kill Harry? Like the Basilisk had been? It might just be a feint, meant to draw his attention away from another plot. But even if it was, if he didn’t pay enough attention, it could cost Harry his life - Voldemort might even be counting on him thinking it was a feint. What the Headmaster knew was that the Goblet had been manipulated in the Ministry. And that meant he couldn’t trust the Ministry. Not after this and the Dementors the year before. That his own reputation suffered was another problem - even though it was the Ministry’s fault, it had happened at Hogwarts, in his domain.

He had considered hiding the fact that Harry had been entered against his will. It would have avoided some of those problems, but ultimately, would have caused far more problems than it would have solved. Honesty was a good policy, after all, in most cases. And it wouldn’t do to undermine Harry’s relationship with his friends, and especially Miss Granger. The boy needed all the support he could get.

*****


	4. The First Task: Fire

**Chapter 4: The First Task: Fire**

Hermione walked through the dark hallways of Hogwarts. She wasn’t headed towards the Gryffindor dorms despite the late hour - it was well past curfew. She was going to the east wing, where the unused storage and classrooms were. The young witch needed to vent. She was so angry she was afraid she’d have an episode of accidental magic soon. A destructive episode. She had kept it together during the evening, supporting Harry while things had been sorted out - to a point - with the Headmaster and the Tournament officials. Been helpful, respectful, thoughtful. Even got to quote a few rules. She had pushed her anger away, focused on playing her role. The dutiful retainer. But it hadn’t gone away. Fueled by the memories of the sneers and mocking cheers from Malfoy and other students who resented her, Harry or both of them, it had simmered all evening.

And now it was boiling over, turning into rage. She had been named as Harry’s stake in this barbaric tournament! And the goblet had confirmed it! She had wanted to destroy it, right then and there. No matter that it was a priceless artifact. No matter the spells on it. No matter that it had been used for this tournament for hundreds of years. She was not a thing! She wasn’t like a broom or a family heirloom! No matter what a piece of copper forged by barbarians in a time when slavery was still legal said! She was a witch, equal to the every pureblood or half-blood witch - more skilled even, than most!

Hermione all but kicked the door open to ‘her’ room - a former classroom, now her unofficial training room - only her own spells on the door holding her back. She really needed to destroy something. Preferably a cauldron or goblet, but she lacked either in this room. Snarling, she lifted her wand, and slammed the door closed, trusting the spells on it to muffle the sound outside. Then she reduced a few of the desks she didn’t use, standing in a row at the back wall, to kindling with a series of Reductor Curses. It didn’t help much. It was too easy. 

“Reductincendo!” 

The next desk was turned into burning splinter that started fires all around it. For a moment she was tempted to let it burn, let it all burn. Then reason took over and she used an Aguamenti to extinguish the flames. She needed the room, after all. It took a while, and tired her out some.

Sighing she sat down on a desk in the centre, barely singed, and started repairing what she had destroyed. Chain casting the Mending Charm helped her calm down. It also made her think of a repair spell that wasn’t limited to one object. Or an Aguamenti that did not create the water at the tip of a wand. And a spell that combined the effects of incendo and reducto. She knew she could create those spells - if she had the time to spend on such pursuits. But spells for her and Harry’s robes, for security and status, had a higher priority. And of course she had spent a lot of time learning the Patronus Charm. That had been a matter of pride - she didn’t want to lag behind Harry.

Harry… Hermione felt her torc grow a bit warmer, and knew he was nearby. She closed her eyes. It wasn’t his fault, she knew that. And she didn’t blame him for the situation they found themselves in either. But she didn’t know if this was because she knew he was not to blame, or because of the Patron Oath.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Her Patron was outside. She pointed her wand, and unlocked the door, then opened it with a flick. Her friend stepped inside and the door closed behind him. For a moment they looked at each other, Hermione still sitting on the desk, Harry standing at the door. Then he walked over and sat down next to her. Hunched over, eyes on the floor. She knew that pose, although she hadn’t seen it much, lately. He felt guilty.

The witch reached over and slung her right arm around his shoulders, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulders. The enchanted silk felt smooth and warm on her cheek. Comforting. “It’s not your fault,” she said before he could start. “It’s the fault of whoever manipulated that stupid goblet, and whoever thought of that bloody tournament in the first place.”

Harry was silent for a bit, but wrapped his arm around her waist. “But I can refu…”

“No, you can’t!” Hermione cut him off and snapped her head up to stare at him. “If you refuse to honour the stakes you’ll suffer its curse! You might even lose your magic, if those rumors we heard were true! It’s not wo...”

This time Harry cut her off. “You are worth it.” 

Hermione felt both happy and afraid at hearing that, at seeing his face when he said it. He meant it, and yet he was wrong.

She shook her head, fighting back tears. “It wouldn’t help. If you lose your magic, you’d be replaced by someone else as my Patron. Same result. Your sacrifice would have been for nothing. Besides, it’s tradition to ransom the stakes back to the losing Champions. Whoever wins would not break tradition.” Or so she hoped - a few Champions had done so, in the past.

Harry closed his eyes, and she used the opportunity to quickly wipe her own eyes. He spoke in a whisper, trembling with emotion. “But… you’d be safe from… “

“Safe from getting a test ride, you mean?” Her plain, crude words shocked him into staring at her, and she started to blush. Now she was looking away. “I think there’s no danger of that happening. I am no broom, the goblet’s opinion notwithstanding. I am rather certain such a thing would not be tolerated. The Headmaster was clear that the times have changed since the goblet was created.”

Harry remained silent. Glancing at him, she realized he didn’t look like he was sharing her opinion. She swallowed. “Harry...?”

He closed his eyes again. “Sirius told me … “ he paused, taking a deep breath, then went on, “he told me that there were rumors. At least in his time. Of Patrons... abusing their power. And what we hear of Durmstrang, and the purebloods there...”

Hermione drew in a hissing breath. “Just rumors.” Harry nodded, somewhat reluctantly. The witch clenched her fist, anger rising again. She fought it down. Fought to remain calm. It wasn’t Harry’s fault. “Even so I think Fleur will not try … that. And Krum… he’s got a reputation to consider, as a Quidditch star.” She patted his shoulder. She really needed to have a talk with Sirius about those lessons though.

Harry nodded. “You’re right. But Malfoy and others will use this to needle us.”

Hermione scoffed. “He’s nothing to worry about. Not with someone trying to kill you. Which is another reason you can’t risk the goblet’s curse for me, you hear me?” She glared at him until he smiled ruefully.

“The Headmaster didn’t name names when he explained how the goblet had been manipulated, but I think we know who’s behind this. The only one with both the motive and the power for it.” Harry sounded grim.

Hermione agreed. “Voldemort.”

“Voldemort.” Harry leaned back until he was lying on the desk, legs dangling, eyes staring at the ceiling. “That monster keeps coming back from death. Three times so far.”

Hermione followed his example, then, impulsively, used her wand to turn the ceiling into a clear night sky full of stars. A static imitation of the ceiling in the Great Hall. “At least everyone knows that someone manipulated the goblet and wants to harm you. Malfoy will claim that you cheated, but only idiots will believe him.”

“Moody will be taking charge of the security.”

“Good.” Moody was paranoid, but paranoia was exactly what they needed right now. Or so Hermione thought. She felt a sudden urge to hurt, to kill whoever was after Harry, and once again wondered if it was her own feelings, or the result of the Oath. She’d do it anyway.

They remained like that for a bit, staring at the artificial sky until it faded.

“We should head to the dorm. They’ll still be waiting for us.” Hermione sat up, but Harry caught her hand, and gently pulled her back down. 

  
“Let’s stay a bit longer like this. Ron will understand and can handle the others.”

Hermione didn’t answer, but cast the illusion on the ceiling again. 

*****

The day after the Choosing of the Champions started as Harry had expected. His own House, not surprisingly, was supporting their celebrity and star seeker. When he and Hermione had finally entered the Gryffindor dorms, well past midnight, all the other students in the house had all still been up and waiting. Even the first years. Harry had suspected someone had dealt out Pepper-Up potions, and Hermione had muttered that the quality of Prefects had gone down a lot with Percy’s graduation, but that had not changed the fact that Harry had had to explain what had happened, in detail.

As a result the Gryffindors were quite tired the next day. Harry and Hermione took some Pepper-Up potions from Harry’s private stash and used cosmetic spells extensively to portray an immaculate facade in public. Ron had given it a pass, stating he’d sleep in History. Hermione’s reaction to that statement had made Harry smile - he needed that kind of familiar, light-hearted banter right now. Of course a number of the older students regularly took similar measures - those in their 7th year usually after study sessions that robbed them of their sleep, those in their Year of Discovery for other but similarly tiring reasons. Harry wasn’t sure if the majority of this year’s Quidditch Team had slept at all in the first week of the term. That reminded him that he couldn’t fly for Gryffindor this year, another result of being a Triwizard Tournament Champion, and he lost his smile.

In the Great Hall, Harry could see the Hogwarts rumor mill at work, spreading what he told the other Gryffindors last night to the rest of the school. Padma must have waited for her sister Parvati right at the door, and gotten the news straight from her, judging by the way half the Ravenclaw table and several students from Slytherin were clustered around her. Lavender Brown was chatting with Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot, with most of the other ‘Puffs listening in openly. The Slytherin table acted aloof, but the students there were already eyeing the Slytherins at the Ravenclaw table with impatience.

Luna and Aicha were on their way towards the Gryffindor table as soon as he, Hermione and Ron had entered. The blonde witch was carrying her oversized notebook and enchanted fountain pen - she was after a story for her father’s magazine. Harry caught Hermione’s scowl at the sight, and smiled again. That the Lovegood family’s well-known eccentricity and long pureblood ancestry allowed Luna to use the pen and notebook without receiving the sneers Hermione would get for using them had irked his friend ever since she had introduced the things to Luna back in their second year. Though to be honest, people still sneered at Luna for being eccentric.

“Harry! Hermione!” Luna greeted them from several meters away, as cheerful as ever. She waved with her notebook since her other arm was linked with Aicha’s, who nodded in greeting. Without waiting for an invitation - which technically wasn’t needed since no one had yet taken a seat - she headed to Harry’s usual spot at the end of the table, dragging the Arabian witch with her. Harry, Hermione and Ron followed, smiling. It was hard to keep a bad mood around the exuberant blonde Ravenclaw.

They had barely taken their seats next to Neville, who had arrived a few minutes before them, and started breakfast when the questions began.

“There are rumors that the Goblet of Fire was manipulated and you have been chosen despite not having entered your name. Is that true?” Luna was munching on a scone and commanding the pot with the hot chocolate to float over to her with a wriggle of her fingers while her enchanted pen wrote down her question.

Harry waited until Hermione had cast a spell to grant them some privacy before answering. “That is correct. I was surprised to hear my name announced, and shocked that whoever did enter me had the gall and perfidy to name Hermione as my stake. She’s not a thing to be put up for a wager like a broom or necklace.” He’d have liked to add ‘and my best friend’, but that would not have been proper, and he and Hermione needed all the good publicity they could get in their situation. Hermione had already written to Rita Skeeter to arrange for an interview during the next Hogsmeade weekend.

“And who do you think is responsible for this?” Luna stared at him while buttering up another scone. Hermione was finishing a more healthy fruit while Ron was going through a pair of sausages and eggs and black pudding with the appetite of a growing boy. Harry himself had stuck to pumpkin juice so far, or rather, the orange juice he had color changed to look like pumpkin juice. Hermione had come up with that idea in their second year, to allow them to drink orange juice without offending the more traditional wizards and witches. Aicha was eating scones but drinking tea - in the style of her family’s homeland, so sweet that Luna was the only other one to drink it more than once. Though rumors claimed the Headmaster liked it as well. Neville was following Ron’s example, in his selection, if not in the amount of food he ate. 

Harry sighed. He didn’t like to lie to his friends, but claiming it was Voldemort would have consequences neither he nor Dumbledore could afford right now. At least Ron knew the truth. “I do not know. I hope it’s just a tasteless prank, but Headmaster Dumbledore suspects there is someone nefarious behind it, and has increased the security for the Tournament. Retired Master Auror Moody has volunteered to help.”

“Oh! That’s great news! Moody is so perceptive, I am sure he’ll be able to see Nargles if he tunes his eye just right!” Luna smiled widely.

And there went the interview, Harry thought. He consoled himself with the thought that the article Luna would be writing would be at least interesting and filled with things he did not know before.

While Luna started to tell them about her latest nargle sightings - they were centred on Draco Malfoy, but avoiding Pansy, or so Harry understood - he was looking around in the Great Hall. A number of students looked away, not wanting to be caught staring. Others met his eyes, with a smile or a sneer. He smiled in return, friendly and not.

The staff table was no exception. Snape was sneering and glaring at him. As was to be expected. Dumbledore had set the professor straight in Harry’s first year, after he had lost his temper and attempted to hex Harry. That had been right after Harry had become Hermione’s Patron. But while the professor had not actually cursed Harry since then, he hadn’t even tried to hide his hatred either. Snape always seemed to think the worst of Harry, going as far as to threaten Harry with emasculation should he force himself on Hermione. That would have sounded oddly protective of a muggleborn for the pureblood Head of House Slytherin, if Snape had not worded it in a way that made it clear he had no doubt Harry would do exactly that sooner or later.

Sirius, who had gone to Hogwarts with Snape, had had a number of things to say about the Potions Master, and none of it friendly or positive. From what Harry had heard, there had been a veritable blood-feud between Harry’s father and Snape - or would have been, if Snape’s pureblood parentage had been revealed before his graduation. Thought a half-blood during his time in school, he hadn’t had the status to stand up to purebloods, much less to the scion of the Black family and his best friend. Of course, students were not supposed to be starting blood feuds, but… that was more of a guideline than a law. How Harry’s mother had been involved in that mess he didn’t quite understand even after several talks, but Snape being jealous of James Potter because of Lily Evans was a creepy thought he’d rather not pursue. Though he’d like to hear a bit more about his mother than ‘she was brilliant, but scary, and had a temper like a redhead’. When he started to ask for more details, Sirius had told him how he once had enchanted the mirrors in the baths of the Gryffindor girls’ dorm to peep on the girls, and what he had seen of Lily Evans then. That had stopped Harry from asking further questions. Maybe if he asked with Hermione present next time… but if that didn’t deter Sirius, then the results wouldn’t be pretty, given Hermione’s temper.

*****

Ron Weasley was looking around while Luna was asking Harry questions he already had the answers for. He almost frowned at seeing Harry being the centre of attention, again. Triwizard Tournament Champion, without having entered his own name - another feather in the cap of the Boy-Who-lived. Ron would have likely been more than slightly jealous if he hadn’t known what was behind this: Another plot by Voldemort. The thought of the Dark Lord plotting his friend’s death drove such petty thoughts away. They’d return, he knew that, but he also knew he wouldn’t let petty jealousy dictate his actions. He had stood with Harry against a troll as a first year, against a basilisk and Voldemort himself as a second year, he had been ready to stand against an escaped mass murderer in his third year. He’d certainly not abandon his friend in their fourth year. He was a brave Gryffindor, not some slimy Slytherin.

Ron was cutting his sausages into bite-sized pieces with the speed his appetite demanded, and the precision his manners, drilled into him by his mother since his early childhood, allowed. The Weasleys were not a rich family, but Molly Weasley made sure they knew how to act in polite society, especially during the - sadly rather few - dinner invitations the family received. Not that that could be helped, given the amount of dinner invitations they could extend themselves. Unlike other, richer families, the Weasleys couldn’t afford the expensive entertainment that was part and parcel of dinner invitations from Wizards, and Molly’s cooking, unrivaled in Ron’s opinion and experience, the twin’s clever spells and Arthur’s extensive collection of muggle curiosa could only go so far in making up for that. They still had enough friends, even rich ones, who invited them, and as importantly, who could be invited to the Weasleys in return without taking offense. The Weasleys were not social pariahs or the kind of dinner entertainment the Lovegoods were perceived as in some circles.

Ron had known that for years now, which didn’t mean he liked it. None of the Weasleys liked it, and all of them were determined to change their family’s fortunes. Arthur would have managed that already, being Head of a Department at the Ministry for Magic, if he hadn’t had to pay for seven children going to Hogwarts. All of them knew that as well, even if no one ever talked about that. But it was the reason Bill was a Curse-Breaker and Charlie was a Dragon Handler in Romania - both very dangerous professions, but also ones that paid very well. Percy had already started at the Ministry, after being Head Boy at Hogwarts, and the twins were planning their own joke shop, with Arthur’s, if not Molly’s full support. And Ron had made a name and a small fortune for himself already as a Basilisk Slayer. Of course, if the Ministry had already paid out the compensation for the beast’s carcass, he’d be really set. And Ginny… Ginny was another topic the Weasleys didn’t talk about much.

The girl had, finally, started to change back into the feisty witch with a fiery temper she had been before her first year at Hogwarts. Before Voldemort tried to possess her. Had possessed her. She still had a way to go to return to normal.

Ron waved his wand, and another sausage floated down to land on his plate while his glass refilled with fresh pumpkin juice. Ginny also seemed to be interested in Harry as a boyfriend, again, or still. Ron wasn’t sure what to think about that. He preferred not to. Think about it, that was. Ginny was still not back to normal, in his opinion - he hadn’t been hit by a bat-bogey-hex in months - and Harry was… 

He drank some juice, and ate half a sausage, and more pudding. Harry was the youngest seeker in a century. He was the Boy-Who-Lived. And he was the youngest Patron in centuries. Maybe ever. His best friend. And he had been raised like a true muggleborn. Like Hermione. His other best friend. Ron knew he wasn’t the best friend of either of them. But in this case, second best meant a lot, given how close those two were. Any witch who married Harry would have to live with Hermione. Any wizard who married Hermione would have to contend with Harry. 

Another thing he didn’t want to think about. Not that it would matter much to him, personally. He liked Hermione. He might even like her as more than a friend, but they would have no future. She was a muggleborn, he was a pureblood, they couldn’t marry. He’d certainly not live in concubinage with a muggleborn witch, any children they’d have would be muggleborns, unable to inherit much, and without many prospects. His mother had raised him better than that. 

Ron suppressed a sigh. Even him and Hermione doing some “exploring” together during their 6th year was a rather unlikely prospect. She was a true muggleborn, and as his father had explained to him, they didn’t see things the same when it came to sex. They were more uptight. They’d expect more than some fun times in bed, more than Ron could or would offer.

Ron hoped Harry would have overcome that way of thinking thanks to Sirius by the time their Year of Exploration started. Two Basilisk Slayers would have the pick of the girls at Hogwarts. Maybe the Patil twins, together… but there would be Hermione too, at Harry’s side. She’d be hurt... Ron shelved those thoughts and focused on his breakfast. Hopefully things would work themselves out before their 6th year.

*****

“Look at Potter, still eating with Weasley and the mudblood. And to think last night I had hoped he had finally decided to put the mudblood in her proper place!” Draco angrily commented. He took a sip from his pumpkin juice then put the glass down with such force the sweet juice swapped over his hand. Pansy quickly vanished the splashed juice with her wand and refrained from rolling her eyes at Draco’s antics. Only a fool would have ever believed Potter would have put his retainer up as stakes for the tournament, so naturally, Draco had thought so. 

“Not that the tournament is anything but a disgrace already, with the French witch a Veela! Truly, Magical France has sunk lower even than I expected if that mongrel is the best their school can offer.” Draco scoffed and sneered, but it didn’t look like either Potter nor Delacour noticed. Pansy smiled - not at his words, but at the thought that Draco apparently still hadn’t heard the rumor that the Malfoy family had Veela ancestry. Close Veela ancestry. And no one knew Pansy had started it a few weeks ago, when she had praised Draco’s grace and beauty, and remarked on his French ancestry. With Fleur having made such an impression upon her arrival, it hadn’t taken long for those rumors to start up. Pansy just hoped she’d be around when he heard it - she was curious how he’d react.

Taking a sip from her own juice, she glanced around. Greengrass, fresh from talking with Davis, who had returned from the Ravenclaw table where Patil had filled them in about the news from Gryffindor, was staring at Potter with a faint smile on her face. Did the blonde witch fancy Potter? Pansy would have to stop that. It wouldn’t do for the blonde to get a better boyfriend than Pansy had. Not that it was likely that Greengrass would be able to charm the Boy-Who-Lived anyway. She had insulted Granger a bit too often, and Potter carried grudges. Cho Chang was a good example for that. Potter hadn’t forgotten what the Chinese pureblood had done to Lovegood in Pansy’s second year, after Lovegood had proved her wrong about some magical animal or other. It seemed Ravenclaws took such matters more seriously than Slytherins took their ancestry.

Pansy was about to assure Draco that Potter would stand no chance against Viktor Krum - and at the same time make her boyfriend jealous of that Quidditch star - when Dumbledore stood up for an announcement about the events of the last evening. She, like all the students, fell silent. They already knew what had happened, but it was always a good idea to listen to the official word on such matters. And he was Dumbledore of course. One did listen to him.

The Headmaster did explain that Potter had been entered in the Tournament against his will, and that while a prank was a possibility, they would take measures to ensure the safety of all participants. Many at the Slytherin table showed as much mirth at those revelations as was possible and still within the borders of politeness, but privately Pansy was concerned. Someone who could manipulate an artifact like the Goblet of Fire had to be powerful, and might not care about bystanders when he or she went after Potter. Staying near the Boy-Who-Lived would be hazardous. Which of course meant that her idiot boyfriend would try to hound Potter as much as possible, given his past behaviour when faced with danger. 

*****

The following days brought little relief for Hermione’s temper. A number of students, mostly but not exclusively Slytherins, were discussing broom and jewelry prices whenever she was nearby - a subtle but effective way to insult her without giving her Patron any cause to be offended. She didn’t know who started it. It was too subtle and too effective for Malfoy, which ruled out his cronies and girlfriend too. That only left most of House Slytherin and half of Ravenclaw, though Aicha didn’t think anyone from her House had started it. Luna claimed that it was someone who repelled more Nargles than one would expect, which of course made no sense at all.

And it wasn’t the full moon either, so she couldn’t even let off steam by hexing some of those students in Moody’s practical lessons which happened when Remus was indisposed. Not that showing what she had learned during the summer and now was capable of would be smart; not with the duelling competition coming up. But it would feel so good to hex some of those bullies! If they’d threaten Harry she could even curse them freely - retainers were allowed to raise their wands against anyone in defense of their Patron, even if their targets were half-bloods or purebloods, which custom usually prohibited muggleborns from casting at unless attacked first.

She was walking with Harry into the Great Hall when she heard a familiar and hated voice. “Ah, Mister Potter. I wish you the best for the tournament.” Malfoy. She saw Harry tense up - he hadn’t taken the bullying well either, and stepped a bit closer, the best she could do to support him in public, where touching would be improper.

“Thank you, Mister Malfoy.” Harry’s voice was so cold, it could have frozen Fiendfyre. Malfoy didn’t seem to notice, but Hermione saw Parkinson wince a tiny bit.

“It goes without saying that I am very pleased that you have chosen to uphold our oldest traditions with your stake in the tournament.” Malfoy smiled at Harry, then glanced at Hermione. The witch kept her face expressionless, but it took some effort.

Harry cocked his head sideways. “Thank you. That is too kind of you. Although, since I did not choose my stake in this myself, nor ever intended to, I have to admit you have me at a disadvantage. What kind of traditions do you mean?”

Malfoy floundered, and Hermione almost smiled. The bigot couldn’t explicitly claim slavery was a tradition to be valued. “Ah… your intention to go honour the conditions set by the goblet, despite not having chosen them yourself.” A weak attempt at recovery, even for Malfoy.

“I can’t imagine anyone who would rather lose their magic than their gold, but apparently you would find such a decision a difficult one, and worthy of note. Peculiar, Mister Malfoy, but not entirely unexpected,” Harry said.

Malfoy gaped, trembling with rage as he realized the insult he had just been dealt, and for a second Hermione thought he was about to draw his wand. Her own was just a flick of her wrist away from sliding into her hand, but the moment passed as Malfoy kept his temper under control, even though it looked like he might suffer a stroke from the effort. Hermione had to fight from giggling in a rather undignified manner as she and Harry left the fuming Slytherin and walked to their table.

*****

One good thing the tournament had caused was, in Harry’s opinion, the opportunity to continue his lessons with Sirius and Remus, and now Moody, in preparation for the first task. Their lessons, now, he corrected himself with a glance to Hermione and Ron. Knowing that Voldemort was back, again, meant his friends would stick close to him. Not that anyone would try, much less succeed in keeping them away anyway. 

Remus was showing them the Flame-Freezing Charm. The first of the four tasks would have a fire theme, so learning that spell, or mastering it, was a priority. Hermione was already planning to enchant his robes with a variant of the spell, but Harry wasn’t sure she’d manage to do that in time for the task. “Now, the spell is easy, but hitting fire and flames that are moving can be hard,” Remus explained, and he and Sirius created floating motes of flame in the former duelling chamber they were using for the training. “Try to hit them before they reach you. The flames won’t hurt you, of course, but they’ll mark you if not frozen. Your goal is to avoid getting burned.”

The three students raised their wands, and the dozens of floating fires shot at them, some straight, some in wild turns, others seemed to attempt to circle around them. Harry took care of the closest, fastest first. His spell hit, rendering it harmless even though it didn’t actually freeze it or stop it from moving, and he quickly switched targets. Another fire was rendered harmless, and then another. He had to dodge a fast one, missing it with his next spell, but hitting another sneaking up on him from below. Then suddenly the ground was on fire, and and while he tried to freeze those flames he was hit multiple times from behind, each spark acting like a stinging hex. Judging by the yelps from Ron and Hermione, they too had been had. Then the exercise ended.

Sirius smirked while Remus smiled encouragingly, unaffected by their glares. “As you can see, the charm is not that effective when used against moving targets, such as fire elementals or animals with a flame aura. Against fire-breathing animals, it’s useless.” Harry saw Hermione mumble something. She was likely trying to work out how to adapt the spell to remove that weakness. He raised his hand out of habit. 

“Yes Harry?”

“As far as I know I’ll have to face such animals in the first task.” Hermione had researched the tournament thoroughly, and the Fire Task usually dealt with fending off or defeating such opponents. Often while surrounded by fire, or enchanted lava.

“Yes. But you are likely to have to deal with enchanted fires as well, and for those the Flame-Freezing Charm works very well. Much better and quicker than Aguamenti, for example. You’ll learn a protection spell as well, after the Bubblehead Charm.” That spell would be needed to breathe while surrounded by smoke, and would help with the next task as well. Almost all tasks involving water involved some amount of time spent in and under it, after all.

“Remember: The tasks are as safe as we can make them, but there’s still a slight risk,” Sirius said. A bigger risk, with Voldemort meddling with the tasks. The goblet’s power prevented the tasks from being altered too much as well. Harry couldn’t help but being nervous. The uncertainty was not helping either - it was likely that Voldemort would make his attempt during one of the four tasks, but the dark Lord might have other plans as well. Moody’s attitude started to sound rather appealing to Harry these days.

Then they had to dodge and freeze the flames again. And failed again. And again. Not even working together and covering each other’s blind spots - which was not the goal of the training anyway, since Harry would compete alone - helped that much. Those flames stung, and Sirius’ cackling laughter whenever he heard them yell didn’t help either. Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione, then nodded towards Sirius. She nodded, understanding his intent. Ron took a bit longer, but not much, to understand.

Then the flames flew at them again, but instead of casting the flame-freezing charm, Harry sent a stinging hex at Remus, followed by Ron’s body-binding hex. He saw the eyes of his teacher widen in surprise right before the spells hit and and Remus toppled over. Sirius was already trussed up in conjured ropes courtesy of Hermione, and judging from his complaints, she had added a few stinging hexes for good measure. With the two controllers out, the flames had actually frozen in mid-flight.

Grinning, Harry pointed this out. “All flames were prevented from burning us.” The glares he got in return made him grin wider.

*****

After the lesson, Harry and Sirius sat together on conjured chairs in a small alcove in the room, which originally had been meant for the judges’ table. Ron had gone off to get a snack and Hermione was badgering Remus with questions about the spells she planned to adapt. Harry’s godfather pulled two bottles of butterbeer out of his mokeskin pocket and handed one to him. 

“How are you doing?” Sirius took a pull from his own bottle, but his eyes didn’t leave Harry. 

“I am doing OK.” Sirius narrowed his eyes a bit, and Harry amended: “Given the circumstances.”

“No nightmares? No urge to kill nuisances? No desire to drink firewhiskey?”

“No.” Harry realized Sirius was going through his own symptoms. He didn’t mention that though - Sirius had a new goal to focus on, keeping Harry alive, and he was doing better. Prying or prodding his godfather wouldn’t help anyone.

“Still an eye for the witches?” Sirius grinned while Harry gave him a flat stare. “Lighten up, Harry. You’re handsome, if not as handsome as I am, you’re a Triwizard Champion, and you’re famous. Witches will flock to you even before the Year of Discovery.” The older wizard glanced over at Hermione, still deep in a discussion with Remus. “You should be preparing for that as well. I am sure Hermione would agree with me. She might even help you.”

“I am sure she would hex your bits off for asking that.” Or his.

“That’s why you should ask. Safer.”

Harry snorted, to hide his growing unease. That wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss. With anyone. Least of all Hermione herself. “How are you doing?” 

Turning the tables was a cheap shot, but effective. Sirius gave some evasive answers, and both drank the rest of their butterbeers in silence.

*****

Viktor Krum was an imposing sight, even up close, and away from his broom, Harry thought. Tall, muscular - unlike most professional seekers - but quick on his feet. Not very talkative, but that could just be the occasion. Dumbledore had called the other two Champions and their Headmaster and Headmistress to his office to discuss security for the upcoming first task. Moody was there as well, standing in a corner, his dark cloak almost melding with the shadows if one did not pay enough attention. He was staring at Karkaroff as if he was just a second away from cursing the man to death. That was likely the case, Harry realized, since Karkaroff was a former Death Eater. 

Strangely though Harry felt reassured by this - he was sure that if Karkaroff was a threat to him, then Moody would have already taken care of the wizard in the ruthless manner he was famous and infamous for. Karkaroff himself looked nervous, almost trembling in his the fur-lined red robes, but that was normal for anyone Moody glared at with his artificial eye.

Harry snuck a glance at Fleur Delacour. The Veela was as beautiful and perfect as she had appeared each day, clad in her ethereal blue silk robe which seemed to float around her rather than be worn. He had trouble imagining the French witch covered with sweat, soot, and dust after a training lesson, brushing a lock of her unruly brown hair back behind her ear… Harry blinked. The French Champion was blonde. It must be the unusual absence of Hermione, who was near him almost constantly, that had caused that slip.

He briefly looked over at Olympe Maxime. Sitting next to Fleur, she looked smaller than he remembered her. Maybe some enchantment - he had heard from Hagrid that she didn’t like to stand out too much, even though she was not as self-conscious about her ancestry as she had been before she had met Hogwarts’ half-giant teacher. Of course her robe was splendid, fitting the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, but more sturdy-looking than Fleur’s ensemble, which gave the impression that a strong gust of wind would blow it away, exposing the witch. Harry clamped down on that thought as well, and silently cursed Sirius for telling him about the spell the Marauders had created once that did exactly that.

“Now that we are all here, let me inform you about the security measures taken for the first task.” Dumbledore sounded calm and serious, lacking the hint of humour usually present in his voice. “We have done what we could under the constraints of the Goblet. I cannot go into too much detail regarding the task itself, but I have personally checked the enchantments in the arena that safeguard the Champions, and will do so again on the day of the task. Alastor will make sure the staff members and everyone connected to the tournament are safe before they can get on the grounds. We have acquired - at great cost, I note - a Thief’s Downfall for this from Gringotts. While we cannot interfere directly during the task, each Champion will receive a potion that will disable him or her if ingested, and then turn into a portkey to our infirmary. That way the Goblet will note them as incapacitated, and allow them to be withdrawn from the field without punishing them.” Theoretically. No one really knew what the goblet would be doing, after all it had been manipulated already. But it beat dying. Harry still resolved not to use the potion and he thought his fellow Champions didn’t plan on using theirs either.

Dumbledore detailed a few more security measures taken, nothing unexpected as far as Harry could tell. The arena, constructed similarly to the one that had housed the Quidditch World Cup, was tamper-proof by design. It could simulate a variety of environments, whose settings could be locked for a set time, preventing sabotage and meddling during the task. Apparition was warded against, for this task at least. Since Harry couldn’t do that anyway - though he and his friends had plans to learn that as soon as possible, just in case - he wasn’t bothered by that restriction. And of course the area housing the creatures used for the task was heavily warded and isolated. Only a select few could enter, and those usually stayed there.

After a bit of discussion - mostly to let Karkaroff feel like he had as much of a say in this as Dumbledore had, Harry thought - the meeting started to break up. Harry was about to head out to rejoin Hermione when Viktor Krum approached him. “Mister Potter? May I have a word, please?” 

“Of course, Mister Krum.” Harry nodded, and saw Fleur Delacour eye them discreetly. He cast a privacy charm, which seemed to surprise the older boy. Maybe even impressed him, Harry thought.

“I wish to tell you that contrary to some unsavory rumors I have heard, I have no untoward intentions concerning your retainer. I will follow custom and traditions, as expected, should I win the tournament.” His accent was strong, but his English was good. Maybe a translation charm, though those could remove accents as well, Harry remembered Hermione telling him.

“I would not expect anything else from a wizard of your reputation, Mister Krum.” Harry nodded. “Should I happen to win the Tournament, I will of course do the same.” Which was quite unlikely, in his opinion, even though he couldn’t help having a few fantasies about winning the tournament, and holding all three stakes in his arms as well as the trophy.

Krum nodded at him, and then stepped outside the spell’s radius, to leave with his impatient Headmaster. Harry was about to leave himself, when he was stopped again.

“A secret meeting between Champions, Mister Potter?” Fleur Delacour sounded amused, but also interested.

“Mister Krum just assured me of his intentions to honour custom and tradition should he win the Tournament,” Harry explained. The French Veela faintly smiled in response.

“That is good to know. Although I would ‘ave expected the chastity enchantments to work well enough to prevent anything untoward.” The witch bowed her head and glided out of the room before Harry managed to respond.

“The what!?”

Harry heard Dumbledore laugh behind him, and turned around. The Headmaster was clearly amused, and even Moody was grinning - usually a terrifying sight. After a moment, the old wizard explained. “There are persistent rumors in the other schools that all Hogwarts students below 6th years are under spells to ensure they remain chaste. To keep them safe from the mandatory orgies of our upper years, you understand.” Mirth twinkled in his eyes while Harry gaped. “Oh, yes. Our school has quite the reputation among the students of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. There is a lesson, I guess, to teach us not believe everything we hear about the other schools. Or from them. Off with you now, your friend is waiting and might start to grow concerned about your continued absence.” 

Outside, Hermione was indeed looking worried. Before the young witch could ask anything though, Harry spoke up. “Did you know the other schools think we have chastity enchantments and mandatory orgies?”

“They what?” Harry hadn’t seen his best friend that flustered in quite some time.

*****

The day of the first task had finally arrived. Hermione Granger was waiting in the Gryffindor common room for Harry to descend from his dorm, so they could walk together to the arena. She hadn’t managed to finish the adaption of the Flame-Freezing Charm in time, but she had brewed some fire-retardant to soak Harry’s robes in. And his hair, just in case. There were not many left in the dorm, most had already gone ahead to secure good spots for themselves, including Ron. Neither Harry nor herself would have to worry about that, of course. Harry would be taking part in the task, and Hermione had a spot next to the judges, together with a broom and a necklace. Just thinking about the indignity made her frown. And then she felt guilty for it. She would be safe, and secure, while Harry would be taking part in this stupid tournament, dangerous enough on its own, and now manipulated by a homicidal maniac.

Her torc grew warm, interrupting her thoughts. Harry was on his way. Hermione checked the room. No one else was around. She quickly started up the stairs, meeting Harry halfway. Before he could say anything, she hugged him with all her strength, as if she could keep him here and safe that way. “Please be careful,” she whispered, her face buried in his shoulder.

“Of course.” He rubbed her back until she pulled back, wiping some tears from her face with her sleeve, the moisture fading at once thanks to her spells, then nodded. 

“My Patron.“

“My Wand.”

They made their way towards the arena. It was a marvel of magic, Hermione had to admit. As big as a Quidditch arena on the outside, but expanded inside in a way that enlarged the floor several times beyond the Arena’s capacity and yet kept all spectators as close as if the arena was actually smaller than it was. As far as expansion charms went, it was the most complex and mind-warping example she had ever seen. Truly inspirational. If only Harry wouldn’t be forced to enter it and compete in the tournament.

They entered through the reserved gate for the staff and Champions and walked to the judges. “I am sorry,” Harry whispered, before he motioned her to the chair next to judges’ table, flanked by two pedestals holding a Krum’s broom and Delacour’s necklace. 

“It’s alright,” Hermione whispered back before taking her seat there, feeling various protection charms and spells snap into place around her.

“The Hogwarts Champion has placed his stake,” Dumbledore announced formally, and Harry walked towards the small platform where the other two Champions were already waiting. Delacour was wearing a sturdier robe, Hermione noticed - though she was sure it wasn’t any less enchanted. Probably less vulnerable to a Finite. The arena floor was shrouded in shadows, keeping anyone from seeing what had been prepared. 

Hermione fought to not bite her lip. To remain stoic, and not show how nervous she was. She distracted herself with studying the audience. Some of them, she suspected, were mainly here to see if Harry would die. Rita Skeeter’s article, while based on the facts they knew, had been as sensationalized as ever, and had more than simply hinted at some nefarious design behind the manipulation, even speculated about a link to the attack on the Quidditch World Cup. Hermione had liked that - it meant an extra-complement of Aurors standing guard. No one wanted a repeat of that incident. Especially not with most of the Wizengamot and the Ministry here. Of course, Hermione thought, spotting the Malfoys, some of the prime suspects of that attack were here anyway. 

The whole spectacle reminded her strongly of Roman gladiator games. The parallels were hard to miss. Though contrary to ancient times, no gods were called upon here - the Goblet had been forged in the time before the Witch Hunts had soured Christianity for the Magical World.

“With all contestants ready and their stakes on display, let the first task of the Triwizard Tournament begin!” Dumbledore raised his wand, and the shadows dispersed, revealing the arena. Hermione gasped at the sight. The floor was made of lava, from which stone pillars rose, holding up a platform made of what looked like wood, three meters above the lava. Hermione knew the lava was enchanted, it couldn’t be real or the wood and anyone passing over it would burst into flames from the heat, but it still was a sight she’d rather not have seen. 

The audience disagreed of course - applause filled the arena. It grew stronger when a dozen shapes appeared from a gate opposite the Champions, what looked like hundreds of meters away, and yet was as easy to observe as if she was sitting just a dozen meters from it. Fire drakes, Hermione realized. Fire-spewing flying lizards, as large as a border collie. Luna had told her and Harry about them, when they had studied fire-themed animals. They were fiercely territorial, related to dragons, resistant to magic; if not to the same degree as their much larger relatives, and could smell their prey, especially fire crabs, which they considered a treat, from miles away.

Another flick from Dumbledore’s wand sent three shining gems into the arena, a golden one, a silver one and a bronze one. They settled on a pedestal in front of the gate the drakes had come through. The flying lizards at once rushed around the shiny gems, screeching. The animals coveted shining things, Hermione remembered. Even if they very rarely hurt humans seriously, preferring to drive them away from their nests with fire and intimidating behaviour, they would defend such a prize. And accidents could happen.

Dumbledore hadn’t finished though. Another swish and flick, and the wooden platform was filled with a veritable obstacle course of wooden walls, ladders, and figures of all kinds.

“Whoever reaches the golden gem wins the task, with silver earning second place and bronze third.” Or last, Hermione thought. Then the wooden figures and walls and obstacles on the platform started to burn. “The longer you wait, the less obstacles you have to pass, for they will have burned down. But be careful, for the floor will be sinking down, and if you wait too long you will end up in the lava yourself. The gate will only open if you hold a gem.” At that moment, Hermione wanted to hurt whoever had thought of such a task, but judging from the loud cheering, she was a tiny minority there.

A loud fanfare was the signal to start, and the three Champions entered the arena. Hermione couldn’t help but cry out when Harry stepped on the wooden floor, and a transparent shield appeared behind him, cutting him off from the audience.

*****

Harry was grateful for the bubblehead charm since the air inside the arena was filled with smoke, partially obscuring their goal. It was hot, but not as hot as it should be, so close above lava. He was still looking around when Krum started for the first obstacle in front of them, a burning wall made of wood. The seeker’s reducto blew a hole into it, but a rather smallish one, Harry thought. Judging by the curses Krum muttered, Harry hadn’t been the only one expecting a bigger one. It would have been too easy, he realized, if they could simply blast their way across the platform.

If he had his broom with him he could simply fly right at the prize… He grinned suddenly. Lateral thinking, Hermione called it. Going through the obstacles was a slow process, even without the animated figures attacking them. But going above… 

Harry used a few reductos to blow up a wooden wall until he had a board broken off, then cast a levitation charm on it. It wobbled a bit, but rose obediently. Perfect. it wasn’t a broom, and it would be very slow, but still faster than going through the obstacles. 

Though as soon as he sat down on it it burst into ashes, dropping him on the ground. Apparently, he hadn’t been the only one thinking of this. Though on the other hand… if he could cast that spell on an obstacle, and then step on it to destroy it in seconds… 

Loud screeching interrupted his planning. Looking up, he saw a dozen fire drakes descend, fangs bared and claws out. Krum was in the middle of climbing over an obstacle 20 yards in front of Harry, and two of the drakes attacked, raking him with their claws. They had not spit fire at Krum, Harry realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach. They were not trying to frighten him away, they were hunting Krum! And himself!

He dropped to the ground and rolled away when he caught a winged shape dive at him, barely evading fangs that could crack a fire crab carapace. The young Champion shot a stunner at the beast without thinking - and without any effect, the spell splashing harmlessly against the drake’s wings. For a moment he thought of using the potion-portkey, but then decided against it - if he was knocked unconscious, even if only for a few seconds before the portkey worked, those drakes would tear him to pieces. And eat him. A sprint carried him past another dive-bombing reptile, closer to where Krum had fallen down. If the lessons from Remus and Sirius had taught him one thing, then that teamwork was the key when defending against multiple fast attackers. 

Harry jumped at a burning wall, trusting the potion covering his robes to protect him, and pulled himself up, then over it. A blunt impact behind him, right as he slid down the other side, told him another drake had gone after him. He ran around the burning embers of a ripped apart scarecrow and dove through a small hole in the next wall, pursued by two more drakes who had to pull up to avoid that obstacle. There was Krum, on the ground, one arm dangling uselessly and bleeding at his side, but casting and holding three of the drakes at bay!

Harry screamed like a madman - it couldn’t hurt, he later defended himself - and then sent a glowing stag at the drakes. The stag had not much of an effect, but distracted the beasts long enough so he could reach the Bulgarian wizard. Crouching down next to Krum, he cast a shield. “Can you heal yourself?” he shouted, to be heard over the screeching of the lizards.

Krum nodded, and flicked his wand at his bleeding arm. Harry couldn’t check how much it helped, he had to focus on his shield as one, then another drake smashed into it, almost shattering it.

Then a much larger figure landed - or crashed - to the ground near the two. Harry almost sent a curse at it, until he realized it was Delacour, in her bird form. Gone was the perfect face, replaced by the beak of a bird of prey. Large wings had sprouted from her shoulders, and her clawed feet held the broken remains of a drake, crushed on the ground. She raised her head and screeched at the drakes circling above them. Harry barely heard Krum whispering curses or prayers under his breath while he stared at the sight. He couldn’t help but briefly wondering what Ron would think of her now.

Then the remaining drakes attacked again, and he was busy shielding. Krum blinded one of the drakes with a well-aimed conjunctivitis curse, Delacour flew up and smacked two more from the air, crushing one as she came down on it just as Harry used a Reductor Curse on the ground under the other, turning the wood into deadly splinters that pierced even drake scales.

And opened a hole for the heat simmering under the platform. Even Delacour, with a Veela’s affinity to fire, was driven back when the temperature rose quickly and drastically, and the wooden planks around the hole started to burn. Harry exchanged a glance with Krum, then started to run towards the gates, their original goal, followed by Delacour.

The drakes were still chasing them. It made no sense - they had seen three of their number killed and another blinded, and yet kept coming. Delacour’s screech warned them of another attack, and Harry recast his Shield Charm just in time to see two more lizards impact on it. He was straining to keep it up while Krum finished one of them with a curse that looked like a poison effect. Delacour ripped the other to pieces with her claws, screeching at the remaining six again.

One of those seemed to respond to what Harry realized was a challenge, and dove at her, spitting fire that washed harmlessly over her. Her own fireballs, launched from her hands, showed an equal lack of effect. Then the two met in a flurry of claws fangs and beaks. The drake fought fiercely, but Delacour had size and mass over it - and her wings were far more powerful than the drake’s. She knocked it down with one blow from her left wing, then smacked it 10 meters back with the other when it jumped up. That was enough for the drake, who flew away before rejoining his brethren.

Harry expected the next attack, wand ready, while Krum healed the cuts Delacour had suffered, but none came. “I claimed you as my prey,” Delacour explained, her voice distorted into an alien sound, drastically different from her usual melodic voice. 

“What?” Harry blinked. Had he heard correctly?

“They see you as prey. I challenged them.” Delacour kept her eyes on the circling drakes.

“You can understand them?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Harry shouldn’t have been so surprised, He was a parselmouth, after all. It stood to reason that a Veela might understand other creatures of air and fire.

“They have simple minds, seeing everything as either predator or prey. I proved to be stronger.” She turned her head with her blood-stained beak towards Harry and Krum. “I am not eating you.” The screeching laughter that followed told Harry just how shaken he and Krum must have looked.

Working together - the drakes were still following them, ‘they hope to scavenge from me’, Delacour had explained - the obstacles posed no problems for the three Champions, and soon they stood in front of the pedestal holding the three gems, exchanging looks. Everyone needed a gem to escape the arena, but who would get which one?

Krum didn’t hesitate long. “Miss Delacour saved us both, she gets the golden one.”

Harry nodded. “And you get the silver one. It’s my fault those drakes attacked us.”

Krum looked like he wanted to argue, but nodded after he met Harry’s eyes.

With the drakes still waiting for an opportunity to attack, the three went through the gate together. The first task of the Triwizard Tournament was over. 

*****

Barty Crouch Jr. laughed, reading the Daily Prophet detailing the events of the first task. As if he had struck then and there if he had actually wanted to kill Potter. No, he’d have waited, let them grow complacent and lower their guard, before striking. But now, and for just an Imperius, an Obliviate and a few liters of fire crab liver extract, his Master’s enemies would focus even more on Hogwarts, allowing him to prepare the resurrection ritual with very little risk. And who knew? With a bit of luck, Potter might still die to his next attack. And should that happen, should the Boy-Who-Lived die in Dumbledore’s care, then the meddling old wizard would be far too busy dealing with everyone screaming for his head to oppose Barty’s master until it was too late.

The Death Eater stood up, dropping the newspaper on the table, then smiled at his father and the family elf, Winky, both bound and gagged by his spells. “I’ll take my leave now, father. I’d love to kill you, but… that would create a risk I cannot take. Not yet. So…”

He pointed his wand at his father’s head. “Obliviate! Your son died in Azkaban. Your wife died soon afterwards. You never thought to rescue him.You have spent the rest of your life alone, with Winky as your only companion, regretting that you sacrificed your son’s life for political ambitions which ultimately failed.”

After wiping the knowledge of his continued existence from the minds of his father and his elf and canceling the spells that held them, Barty left his family home. He had his Master’s resurrection to prepare.

******* **


	5. Duels

**Chapter 5: Duels**

Hermione was standing so close to Harry, she was certain he could feel her breath on his neck since she was still panting from her dead run to him. Watching the first task had been a horrible experience for the young witch. She had realized at once that the animals were not acting naturally when they did not display their typical threatening behaviour, but attacked right away. When she had seen them flying at Harry, she had felt such an urge to help him, save him, she had almost tried to break through the shield separating the arena from the audience. Only the knowledge that it would not only have been forbidden, but futile, had kept her from trying, and even so it had been a close call. Her best friend, her Patron, had been in danger, and she had been forced to watch helplessly, uselessly! She had bitten her lip bloody waiting and worrying while the audience, not realizing this was not planned, roared with delight. Blood sports indeed!

But even worse was the aftermath. Hermione had rushed to the exit, to Harry, as soon as he had left the arena. While not exactly proper procedure for a stake in the tournament, her being his retainer allowed this, even called for it. But hugging him, as she so desperately wanted, to not only see, but feel that he was safe and unharmed, was out of the question. Far too many were watching them. She contented herself by brushing some ash from his robes as an excuse to at least touch him. In response Harry turned his head briefly, smiling at her. “I am fine, my Wand.” At least someone had cast a spell to keep the crowd’s loud reaction from reaching them.

The judges, several Aurors and the healers assigned to the tournament surrounded the three Champions. Everyone was talking over each other for a bit, with the healers barely having enough space to check for wounds other than the obvious ones on Krum, which quickly were dealt with. 

“I do not detect any curses on them,” stated a tall, black Auror.

“No sign of Malaclaw Venom either,” another Auror said, after waving his wand. 

The first Auror scoffed at that. “If they had been suffering from that they’d not have made such a good time through the obstacles, and they’d have been mauled, Gregor.” 

Hermione caught Snape, who seemed to be conducting his own investigation, smile snidely at that comment before the Potions Master focused on his wand work again. The witch took note that almost everyone was casting silently. Even Dumbledore was casting, though she had no idea what kind of spells - he was barely moving his wand at all.

“Headmaster! Headmaster! I found it!” Hagrid’s loud, booming voice, made everyone stop and look at the half-giant. Hermione just then realized that he had, with a few more Aurors and probably experts for magical animals, entered the arena. 

“Splendid, Rubeus. Please enlighten us.” Dumbledore sounded almost cheerful, despite the seriousness of the situation, in Hermione’s opinion. Madam Maxime also seemed to brighten up.

“From the way the drakes attacked they must have mistaken the children fo’ their prey since they normally do not attack humans. There was no sign o’ any spells on them, not now and not befo’ the event, I checked personally. But they hunt by smell, so someone must’ve dosed the Champions with somethin’ that made ‘em smell like prey. Prolly like fire crabs, the little tykes go crazy for them and they haven’t had any fo’ weeks. Someone cut the budget fo’ it. If I ‘ad been in charge o’ the animals… they’d not have been killed. Poor little tykes.“ 

Dumbledore nodded. 

Snape cut in: “Since fire crab liver extract is harmless, the wards against poison wouldn’t have caught it in the kitchen.” He sneered at Harry and added: “Since I doubt all three Champions would have been so careless to let someone dose them with such a substance, the meals are the most plausible means to accomplish such a feat.”

“Exactly, Severus. Provided this hypothesis turns out to be true. I believe you can easily confirm it with an analysis of the children’s sweat, can’t you?”

“Blood would be better, but sweat will work as well.” 

Hermione had no doubt that was true, but not many wizards would let another draw blood from them to experiment with. It was far too dangerous should it fall into the wrong hands. She remembered the reactions of her fellow students when she had mentioned blood donation drives and blood transfusions. Everyone had thought she was pulling their legs, even when she had tried to prove it with a book her parents had mailed her on her request. Judging by the snort Harry had let slip at Snape’s words, he’d not even dream of letting the man get ahold of his blood.

“I believe we have done all we can here, and can leave the rest in the capable hands of the Aurors and Severus.” Dumbledore beamed. “Our Champions handled themselves splendidly, and I was delighted to see them close ranks in the face of unexpected danger. The audience certainly went wild, as the saying goes.” Hermione saw that most of the wizards and witches present nodded. Karkaroff frowned, but didn’t say anything, and Snape was glaring around. “Let us now proceed to judge the event, before Cornelius grows impatient.”

With that the judges led the Champions to their table, with Hermione trailing behind Harry until she had to sit down at the stakes table again. The Minister for Magic gave a short speech about the skill and bravery of the Champions, and the spirit of cooperation, as expected, then the verdict was rendered. Unsurprisingly, Delacour was confirmed as the victor of the task, with Krum taking second place and Harry third. Hermione had the impression Karkaroff would have liked to argue, but had not wanted to contradict his own Champion. With everyone finishing at the same time, the actual point differences were minimal anyway - 60, 55 and 50 points, respectively. Harry had still a good chance to win the tournament, Hermione thought, then chastised herself silently for thinking such selfish thoughts - he had to survive the assassination attempts, not think about winning!

*****

The next day Hermione was sitting in the Great Hall, next to Harry, and reading the newspapers delivered by owls. The Daily Prophet’s headline stated ‘Champions brave fire drakes’, and the pictures on the front page made Hermione remember the fear she had felt for Harry. She would have shivered, if not for Harry’s hand briefly patting her back. She did study the picture showing Delacour transforming in detail though - it was a fascinating process.

The muggleborn witch and her Patron had been very surprised that seeing the beautiful French witch change into a frightening bird-woman did nothing to diminish the attraction so many students had for her - quite the contrary, in fact. Delacour remained the witch many dreamed of bedding, and her ability to change her form seemed to make her more magical, and therefore even more perfect in the eyes of many wizards and not a few witches. A brief glance to her left confirmed that most of the Gryffindor Quidditch team was looking at the Ravenclaw table with hopeful expressions on their faces. She felt a brief satisfaction that Harry didn’t seem to share that opinion even if Ron was straining his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the blonde again.

The picture showing herself with the rest of the stakes was less welcome, in her opinion. At least it was taken before the start instead of during the event, when she had bitten her lip until it bled. The description of the picture was quite flattering. Her pride at the praise of her appearance, skill and manners was short-lived though, since the very next sentence speculated that Krum or Delacour might wish to keep her for themselves in case they won the tournament. Fortunately she knew from Harry that Krum had no such intentions, and neither did she think had Delacour. A growl from Harry made her look up - he had just read the same paragraph.

“It’s just some baseless speculation,” she whispered, briefly patting his thigh. He nodded at her, but his mood did not seem to improve. She decided to distract him before someone picked up on that.

“Look at that! They know that the Fire Drakes have been manipulated, but they do not know the method used. But the author blames Dumbledore for his ‘appalling lack of security’ while at the same time dismisses the Fire Drakes as ‘mere pests’. Those drakes hunt fire crabs! Has that man ever seen a fire crab?” Hermione huffed before summoning the floating plate of fruits to her to pick up fresh pineapple slices.

“It’s from Valdemar Beckleton. Rita said he’s in Malfoy’s pocket.” Harry dug into his own breakfast. “But on the positive side, the Purists have stopped protesting the Tournament since now it’s ‘not just an unneeded entertainment for the masses’.” Harry snorted.

“That’s positive?” Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Better than this: ‘This interference is just the first step of the vengeance from heaven for not calling upon the gods at the start of the Tournament. Jupiter has been angered, and has sent his animals to reap vengeance.’ That’s a quote from the High Priest of the Faithful.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. The Faithful were extremists who took the veneration of the Old Gods very seriously - and took the lack of true faith among mainstream Wizarding Britain even more seriously. “Great. I wonder if he even realizes that Jupiter’s animal is the eagle, not the fire drake,” she added whispering despite the spells granting them privacy. 

“Are you sure? That sounds odd. Eagles are not even magical.” Ron had returned to his own meal, and joined the conversation. Hermione opened her mouth, ready to correct the redhead when she caught his sly grin. He was pulling her leg. Huffing, she speared her next pineapple slice. 

“Snape confirmed that our food was laced with fire crab liver extract. Hagrid found some more, near the cage for the fire drakes. He said the smell drove them wild. Hagrid wasn’t affected himself, so it probably happened when he was eating in Hogsmeade with Madam Maxime.” Harry explained to their friend.

“Why didn’t anyone notice?” Ron shifted a bit, to make space for Neville who was arriving late, as seemed to be the norm this term for him.

“They kept the drakes isolated from any student or teacher, so no one noticed the effect,” Hermione explained. “A classic case of using our own security measures against us. I do hope this was accidental, and not planned.”

“Better not count on that,” Ron commented while refilling his goblet with more pumpkin juice.

“Are you sure they didn’t dose you specifically?” Neville asked after filling his own plate with the help of a few summoning charms.

“They checked more students than just the Champions.”

“Someone has to have helped them, then. Someone on the inside.” Neville looked at his food as if he was suspecting it to jump up into his face.

“It must have been a house elf. Probably an Imperius or Confundus Charm, followed by an Obliviate.” Hermione had finished her own breakfast, and could focus on the topic at hand. “Checking all elves for possible hints of that will be nigh-impossible. It’s hard enough to spot altered memories in a human brain, and it takes a long time with a pensieve. I do not think anyone ever bothered to do the same for elves.” She felt for the elves, they were in a situation somewhat similar to her own. If one squinted and closed an eye, as Harry had said when she mentioned it. Close enough for her, in any case.

“So, that trace is a dead end.” Ron summed her statement up.

“Yes.”

“Heads up, Malfoy’s headed our way.” Ron nodded towards the blond Slytherin strutting through the Great Hall as if he owned it, his girlfriend at his side and his two goons at his back.

“Good Morning, Mister Potter.” Malfoy nodded at Harry, barely enough to avoid insulting him. Harry returned the greeting with the same precision. “Is it true that you had so much trouble with mere pests, you had to run to the other Champions to save yourself?”

“I would hardly call animals who hunt fire crabs for food as mere pests, but then, I am not taking Care of Magical Creatures, so I bow to your superior knowledge. You even have the scars on your arm to prove your mastery of the subject,” Harry answered with a pleasant if toothy smile. Malfoy stiffened and Hermione smiled blandly, to hide her amusement. Malfoy had defied Hagrid’s instructions, and gotten mauled for it. And to top this particularly fine piece of stupidity, he had then tried to use his wound to not only get the Quidditch games rescheduled but also to get the hippogriff killed. As if Matron Pomfrey would not see right through his malingering, and Hagrid not provide pensieve evidence of the lesson in question! Sometimes she wondered just how he came up with those plots.

“Good. I do wish you better success in the next task. Apparently your competitors might actually find your stake attractive enough to consider keeping her. I would never contemplate to lower myself to that level, but foreigners apparently lack our standards.” Draco sneered at Hermione while stating this, making it quite clear that the standards he considered lacking should such an event occur were not those of honour and tradition, but of aesthetics. 

Harry bristled at the intended insult to Hermione, but fortunately managed to control himself enough to answer in a civil tone. “I trust my fellow champions’ honour. We fought side by side, after all, in the face of lethal danger, which forms a certain bond. Mister Malfoy.”

“Indeed, Mister Potter. Good day.” Malfoy nodded, seemingly acknowledging the point, which surprised Hermione. Parkinson seemed surprised as well, before she started tittering to her beloved.

“For someone who just insulted the honour of two Champions and possibly their schools and countries just to needle me, that was a surprising reaction, or lack thereof,” Harry commented. 

Ron agreed. “Usually he’d claim he did the same, or better, or that you lied.”

“Maybe he is growing up some?” Hermione nibbled on her lip again.

All four Gryffindors at their corner of the table looked at each other, then shook their heads.

*****

Harry almost smiled, watching Hermione check and recheck the spells that had turned an unused classroom she was normally using for her - still unsuccessful - experiments in magic-proofing electronics into a small lounge. She was just a bit too concerned with everything appearing to be perfect for their guests. Inviting Delacour and Krum to discuss the events of the day before in a more casual setting had been her idea, but she seemed to have forgotten the casual part. At least she was focusing on the room, and not on him anymore. She had cast half a dozen charms on him already. The room showed the results of her efforts though - the walls were covered with illusions of wooden panels and animated paintings, the floor was covered by a conjured thick brown carpet, and the refreshments provided by the house elves (and double-checked by Moody and Hermione) were waiting on floating trays. There even was an illusionary fireplace in the other wall.

A glance to his right increased his amusement. Ron was rechecking all the spells on his best school robe, and fretting over meeting both his Quidditch idol and ‘the most beautiful bird in the castle’ at the same time, and in an almost intimate setting. Or so he had described it.

After a few more minutes of this entertainment, there was a knock at the door. Their guests had arrived. Hermione ran a cosmetic spell over herself, for the 6th time this evening, and went to open the door. After glaring at him, that was - she seemed to have not forgotten Harry’s joke that if she overdid it with the cosmetic spells, she might cause Krum to regret his earlier promise. 

“My Patron bids you welcome, Mister Krum, Miss Delacour, and offers his hospitality for the duration of your visit,” Hermione formally greeted Krum and Delacour. So much for a more casual setting, Harry thought, while his two guests accepted the invitation and hospitality. Though knowing that any hostile action would be a scandalous break of custom for whoever did it was a good way to make wizards and witches feel at ease.

“Welcome, my fellow Champions, to my humble if temporary abode. May I present my close friend Ronald Weasley to you?” Harry gestured to Ron, who had managed to compose himself, to the point of grinning at the two Champions while he greeted them. Both returned the greeting.

While everybody sat down on the massive but soft dark leather couches and seats Harry and Hermione had conjured, his retainer summoned the prepared trays with drinks and a few snacks, levitating them over to the tea table floating in the middle. Once everyone had been served, she sat down on the armrest of Harry’s seat. It was a seating arrangement they had developed for such gatherings, casual but not limited to close friends and family. It let Hermione sit close - to Harry and the guests - while giving a nod to the tradition of a retainer waiting at their Patron’s side in case their services were needed. From the amused smirk on Delacour’s face she had noticed. Krum was harder to read; his face didn’t show any emotion. 

“I am happy you accepted my invitation,” Harry started. “I would offer my sincere apologies for the events of yesterday. If not for whatever madman is after me, you’d not have been in danger.”

“Not in quite as much danger, you mean,” Delacour answered. “But we would still ‘ave ‘ad to deal with the drakes.” 

Krum nodded. “And while I would not like to downplay my wounds, or your help, which was greatly appreciated, it did seem a bit… weak for an assassination attempt.” 

Harry had to agree. He and his friends had come to the same conclusion, after giving it some thought. “I concur. Though whether that happened due to a lack of skill or opportunity on the side of the assassin, or if that was done to make us lower our guard is impossible to tell. I trust such a ploy will not work though.” Both his fellow champions nodded at that, and for a moment the mood grew somber. With a smile, Harry raised his glass. “That said, I have to express my appreciation and respect for your skill and talent. While we are all Champions, I would prefer to consider you as allies first, competitors second, and not just because of possible further tampering. It is no secret that I did not want to enter this tournament, not this year at least, and that my focus is on survival rather than winning.”

Ron, Krum and Delacour raised their glasses as well, then drank. Hermione sipped from her own glass at that point.

“A wise stance, Mister Potter. Though given my impression and your past deeds, you do have the means to win as well.” Krum stated, and with a nod to Hermione, added: “And of course the best motivation of all of us.” 

Harry felt a slight spark of irritation at that, but tried to suppress it. It was a compliment, after all. Though when a glance of him revealed Hermione’s faint blush at the comment, he grew more irritated, not less. “I trust your honour in that area, Mister Krum.”

“Of course. Despite some rumors, Durmstrang does not condone the taking of liberties from those of less than pureblood status.” 

“Ah, rumors.” Delacour sighed, though a bit overly dramatic in Harry’s opinion. Maybe that was just the French way. “I think everyone present is familiar with ‘ow annoying those can be.”

That brought a general agreement from all present.

“I was surprised to hear what rumors claim happens at Hogwarts.” Harry took another sip from his glass, which was refilled by the floating carafe. “To think there were mandatory orgies here… or chastity spells…” He shook his head. He heard Hermione cough at his comment.

Krum looked a bit surprised. “So, the claims that the upper years at Hogwarts do, ah ‘live it up’, are false? I have received a number of offers to join them, and did not think those were false.” He didn’t sound quite disappointed, but that could be because he inferred that he had not taken up anyone on such offers.

“Oh, there are orgies. Just not mandatory ones,” Ron clarified, oblivious to the glares from Harry and Hermione. Harry still wasn’t that comfortable with what the Year of Discovery entailed, and he was not sure he’d ever be, despite, or because of Sirius’ tales. From the lack of surprise on Delacour’s face, she had been aware of that already, though Harry doubted due to personal experience - such news would have spread like Fiendfyre through the Castle.

“It does seem as if ‘ogwarts is the closest to the traditions, or rumored traditions, of our pre-Christian ancestors in that area,” the Veela added. “In Magical France, we focus more on courtship than orgies. Or so we claim, which I am bound to support.” Her glass was being refilled as well, and she smiled in a rather flirting manner. Harry could see where the rumors concerning Beauxbatons students and their conquests had come from. A glance showed him that Hermione could see the same. He patted her thigh, concealing it as a request for more snacks.

Krum frowned. “It is different at Durmstrang despite what the rumors claim. We do not speak so frankly of such matters, or only when drunk or with friends closer than brothers. But we do not live like monks, nor do we have a stable of, ah, employees for such acts. We’re simply discreet.”

Harry was relieved to hear that, but felt it was time for a change of topic. For Hermione’s sake, of course, and because he was still two years away from the Year of Discovery. “I must say I was very impressed by your broom. I fly a Firebolt myself, but yours seems far superior from what I heard. ” He could almost feel Hermione frown at that, but Ron of course jumped at the chance to talk about brooms. Delacour changed the topic when it became apparent to everyone but Ron that Krum was not as enamored of talking about Quidditch, to which the talk had quickly shifted, as one would expect from a star seeker. A quality Hermione appreciated, or so it seemed to Harry.

Nevertheless, the evening continued in a friendly manner - they had fought side by side, after all - and when it was time to leave for their dorms, everyone was on a first name basis. Even Hermione, though of course such familiarity was limited to private - or as Fleur called it, in he teasing manner, intimate - gatherings. Harry would have been angry about that injustice, if not for the fact that he thought Viktor had been interested in more than the subject when Hermione had talked about her spell crafting attempts. He couldn’t help but wishing Hermione was a fan of Quidditch. Something he had wished for often in the past, but not for this reason.

*****

“Dean asked me out for the ball, but… I hope Ron is asking me out! He smiled at me at breakfast.” Lavender Brown’s voice carried through the dorm like a Harpy’s screech, in Hermione’s opinion. Especially when followed by giggling from both Brown and Parvati Patil. And that suck-up, Perks the fake muggleborn. Talking about the Yule Ball. About dates. Most of the school was talking about that. Speculating who would be going with whom. Hoping for someone specific to ask them out, or asking someone out themselves. 

“Oh… Ron’s a prize. A Basilisk Slayer and a pureblood, but not stuck up at all.” Patil cooed. Actually cooed. Hermione was sure they were talking that loud just to make sure she would overhear them. She, and Fay Dunbar, of course. Fay would not be at the ball at all. The Purists spent Yule contemplating and honouring magic, as she had explained to Hermione in their first year, not in frivolous celebration. It was a good time to make important decisions, or so she claimed.

Hermione… she wasn’t sure what she’d be doing at the Yule Ball. That she would be there was a given, even if she had no date she’d attend as Harry’s retainer. The thought made her frown, and from the way the three other girls started giggling and whispering, they must have noticed. Harpies. The young witch didn’t think attending as Harry’s retainer, waiting to serve, would be fun. But getting a date would be a problem, not that she had anyone in mind.

Hogwarts usually was rather egalitarian for a Wizard school, the Hogsmeade dates and of course the Year of Discovery proved that, but since the Yule Ball was part of the Triwizard Tournament, different rules - customs - applied to who could ask whom to be their date. As a muggleborn, she couldn’t ask anyone but a muggleborn. At the same time, as the retainer of the Boy-Who-Lived, anyone wanting to ask her would have to ask Harry first. A daunting task. Not many would want to risk angering Harry by asking his mistress to be their date, no matter how unfounded those rumors about them were. Which was not that bad, all things considered - it spared her the task of turning someone down. Ron of course would be her date if she wanted him to, but that would be unfair to her friend. He should be dancing with a girl - or boy, though so far he hadn’t showed any such preference, with the possible exception of Viktor - he wanted to dance with. Besides, she was too proud to ask for such pity.

“What about you, Parvati? Who do you have in mind?” Brown asked, once again too loud.

“Oh, I don’t know… if Longbottom asked I’d certainly not turn him down. Or Zabini.” Patil sighed, and Hermione could imagine the affected pose she must have struck.

“Oh, tall, dark and handsome…” Perks of course tuned in. Hermione, not too kindly, thought Finnigan would ask Perks, once he got turned down by too many other witches. The Irish student was a skirt-chaser with not many standards, in her admittedly biased opinion.

“What about you, Hermione? Who do you hope will ask you for the ball?” Brown asked with fake interest. The muggleborn witch turned towards the three other girls, all leaning forward with clear interest in their eyes. Even Fay was looking up from her book. Hermione suppressed the urge to sigh. So transparent. 

“I haven’t thought about that at all yet,” she lied with a smile. “I was completely concerned with helping my Patron preparing for the Yule Ball. Neither he nor his friends have chosen a date yet, and I might be called upon to offer what meager advice I might give.” Her smile grow more honest when she saw that the three social climbers suddenly understood that while Hermione might be heading for a dateless Yule Ball, she was close to three of the most fancied boys in Gryffindor, or even the school, and that at least Harry, but maybe the others as well, were often relying on her advice in a lot of matters. She noticed that Fay barely hid a smirk. 

When the three others quickly grew far more friendly than before, she almost sighed again. So transparent! 

*****

Harry wiped sweat from his face with a quickly conjured piece of cloth. He was winded, and the training with Sirius and Remus wasn’t even close to finished. After the sabotage at the first task, their training had grown far more intense. Even Sirius had grown more serious, and they referred a lot more to their own training and fights during the Blood War than to the pranks they had pulled at school. It was a marked contrast to the almost giddy feeling that had taken over Hogwarts in preparation of the Yule Ball. Though he would call it more like a feeding frenzy, in private. Fortunately, his status as Head of Family meant that no one his age could ask him, so he was free to … carefully think about who he would ask. Later. 

He banished the cloth then vanished it before it hit the ground. Sirius nodded at his aim and conjured a couch for them to sit down and take a small break. Two bottles of butterbeer were floating near him. Remus and Hermione were still going at it, sending waves of spells at each other on the other side of the room. Harry recognized most, but not all spells the two used. Hermione must have been busy studying on the side, or spellcrafting in preparation of the Duelling Competition of the tournament. Ron had cut the lesson short, to see if he could ask Padma Patil out for the ball. His friend would have asked her sister, if not for Hermione informing him that Parvati was hoping for Blaise Zabini to ask her.

“Good casting there, Harry. You’ve gotten faster and more precise.” Sirius sounded approving, even proud. It felt good.

“Thanks. I do need to improve a lot though, I couldn’t touch you most of the time.” He levitated one bottle over to him while Sirius grabbed the other.

“You’ve got the basics down pat, the rest is just training and refining.” Sirius raised his bottle as if toasting him. “Look at them go. Remus always knew more spells than James and I together, and Hermione seems to match him already in that area, if not yet in speed. Quite precise as well.”

“Her spells lack power though,” Harry remarked. That would hamper her in the competition when faced with someone with a strong Shield Charm.

“That’ll come as she grows up. Not that she hasn’t already grown up nicely in the right spots.” Sirius grinned at Harry. “You’ve certainly noticed that, eh?”

Harry closed his eyes, hoping Sirius would take it for fatigue rather than annoyance. He liked his godfather, and while he could be a pain at times, he didn’t want to hurt the man who had spent a dozen years in Azkaban. He didn’t want to talk about his best friend’s body, or flexibility, or preferences in bed. Again. He still had those dreams from the first discussion. He needed to change the topic. “I still haven’t gotten a date for the Yule Ball.” Not that much of a change, granted, but it should at least get Sirius to talk about girls other than Hermione. 

“Cutting it close, are you? You’re risking that the best dates are gone if you wait too long. My godson can’t go with an ugly one. I’ve got a reputation to live up to!” He grinned at Harry, and for a moment his expression reminded him of Sirius’ dog form.

“I know, but… it’s difficult.” Harry looked at the stone floor, and drew a few circles made of red lines with his wand.

“It’s not. Pick the best-looking girl outside Slytherin, ask her. If she turns you down, pick the next best-looking. One will say yes, and you have your date. That’s what I did, and it worked perfectly! Oh, the memories...”

“I am in fourth, not sixth year, Sirius!”

“I was talking about my third year, Harry.”

Harry hung his head, muttering something about dogs while Sirius laughed. Then his godfather clapped im on the back. “Trust me, you’re overthinking it. It’s just a ball. If it was that important, don’t you think your lovely retainer would have made more of a fuss about it?”

Harry groaned. “She made charts for me, Sirius! Detailed the girls’ appearance, personality, magical talent, grades, blood type, star sign and family influence. She even noted whether or not they’d be on their period at the time of the ball!” His godfather started to laugh so hard he almost fell from the couch. “It’s not funny, Sirius! Obviously, she takes this very seriously…” His godfather laughed even harder, which stopped Harry. Blinking, he looked over to Remus and Hermione, who had stopped their duel, apparently some time ago, and were laughing as well. He slapped his face. “You’re a really bad influence on her!” 

Hermione came over and rubbed his back. “You needed to lighten up, Harry. Sirius was right, you’ve been overthinking this. The charts are fake, of course. Though as compensation I made a list of the girls I know are still hoping you’ll ask them.” 

He snatched the parchment she held out and glanced at the names. There were not in alphabetical order, so she probably had listed them in order of preference. “Susan Bones?” he asked, reading the first name on the list.

“She’s the niece of the head of the DMLE. She’s pretty, comes from an old family and can hold her own in a conversation,” Hermione explained, in a matter of fact manner. Maybe a bit too clinical, Harry thought. And Susan was, for lack of other living family members close enough to her aunt, in line to become Head of the Bones Family, so she was unable to marry another Head of Family. Like himself. Good choice. 

He smiled warmly at his best friend. “I’ll ask her first thing in the morning. Thank you.” She beamed at him, until he added: “and now we will pick a date for you.” He grinned at the expression on her face while Sirius and Remus laughed. Did she really think she could prank him and he’d not get back at her?

*****

“What?”

Hermione stared at the blonde witch. A quick glance to Harry, seated next to her at their usual corner of the table proved that she had not been hearing things; he was looking as surprised as herself.

“I asked you if you’d like me to ask Harry for permission to ask you to be my date for the Yule Ball, Hermione.” Luna beamed at her, obviously not caring about their surprised reaction. 

“Ah…” Hermione didn’t know how to react. She hadn’t put Luna on top of the list for Harry, or even near the top because the younger witch was so open and earnest in all she did, she had seemed a bad choice for a date of convenience that would not mean anything. Or so Hermione told herself. Now the Ravenclaw was asking to ask her? What did that mean? She looked at the blonde’s best friend, Aicha, seated next to her, but that was no help. The dark-skinned witch was just smirking in amusement and seemed unwilling to help. And Ron, who knew Luna better, was eating with Padma Patil at the Ravenclaw table, while Ginny was likely waiting for Neville and still in their common room. 

“Ah… why?” Harry had found his voice, but sounded not quite as sure of his words as he usually did. Fortunately, their usual privacy spells were in effect.

“Well, I want to go to the Ball since everyone is going. Aicha’s going with Blaise, you’re going with Susan, Ron with Padma, Neville with Ginny, and since I am in my third year, I need an older date to go. Hermione’s free and old enough.” Luna had been ticking off the pairings on her fingers, then took a bite from the scone she had been levitating near her. Hermione was about to nod in understanding. A date of convenience for two witches without dates. It made sense, and was a good reason. Before she could could voice her agreement and understanding, Luna continued. “And I think you’re very pretty and I’d like to dance with you and get to know you better.”

The way Luna smiled this was not a double-entendre, or flirting. Probably. Hermione realized that everyone was looking at her. “Ah, I’d like that, Luna. Thank you for asking to ask for permission to ask.” Judging by the way Luna squealed in delight, that had been the right thing to say. Not that she could have turned the exuberant witch down anyway, not without feeling bad. Luna just got to you.

“Mister Potter, would you give me permission to ask your retainer, Miss Granger, to be my date for the Yule Ball? I promise to treat her well and will not endanger her virtue.” The Ravenclaw’s formal wording was contrasted by her buttering up her second scone while talking.

With a bemused smirk, Harry nodded. “You have my permission, Miss Lovegood.”

“Thank you! Miss Granger, would you grant me the honour of being my date for the Yule Ball?”

Hermione nodded. “The honour is mine, Miss Lovegood.” Formality felt good, right now.

“Great! We can coordinate dress robes at Hogsmeade! It’s a date!” 

A date? Hermione looked at Harry, but her traitorous Patron was grinning widely. She glared at him, and then focused on her breakfast. Her parents would be surprised to hear she had a witch as date for the ball, though no more surprised than Hermione herself was, but it wasn’t as if it Luna was interested in her that way. Or so she thought. Maybe. One never knew with Luna. 

*****

Harry Potter couldn’t help but worry. Hermione, his best friend, was about to fight in the Duelling Competition of the Triwizard Tournament. As a Champion, he was banned from competing there, so he was reduced to watching her fight. And as his retainer, how she fared would reflect back on him. The irony of this reversal of their roles in the first task did not escape him, but didn’t help his mood. Duels, as he knew from personal experience, always carried some risk with them. Even spells that were not classified as lethal could cause severe wounds, or death, under some circumstances. And Hermione would be facing tough opponents. He felt the urge to rush to her side, to help her, protect her from any danger, rise up inside him, and suppressed it. Again. He couldn’t help her with this.

His friend was among the few younger students who were allowed to compete, thanks to her grades and performance in DADA. Ron was another, despite lower grades. But Remus knew he could handle himself in a duel. Malfoy was competing as well, thanks to Snape’s influence and his family’s money, or so Harry thought. Though maybe the Slytherin had received special training as well? They hadn’t crossed wands this year, yet, so he couldn’t dismiss that possibility. Most of the other competitors from Hogwarts were older, the best duelists among Hogwarts upper years. The toughest would be Flitwick’s protégés. The visiting students were all participating, of course. They had come in the hope to be chosen as Champions, and so would be the best the other schools could offer.

In total 64 students would be starting. Six fights to win. He didn’t expect Hermione to win, of course, but imagining it was a nice thing. She deserved to show up everyone. The competition would be taking the whole day, even though most duels would be quickly decided, and the lava field in the arena for the first task had been remodeled into a stone floor with four slightly elevated duelling circles, separated by powerful wards. Harry was sitting with the other two Champions in a special booth next to the judges. He had spotted more Aurors present than at the first task, and was sure a few more were hidden among the spectators.

“I am sure ‘ermione will perform to your complete satisfaction, ‘arry,” Fleur said, with her usual teasing smile, interrupting his thoughts. Krum made an agreeing noise.

“I know. I can’t help but worry about her getting hurt. Duels are not a safe sport.”

“Neither is Quidditch, n’est-ce pas?”

“Touché, Fleur.” Hermione had been vocal in the past about having to watch Harry dodge bludgers and other players on the hunt for the golden snitch. And her reaction to him using the Wronski Feint for the first time… He had learned a lot of new words that day. “I do not have to like it though.” He sighed and settled in to watch the first fight starting. The magic of the arena allowed every spectator to observe the duels as if sitting right at the ring. At least Hermione would not be distracted by his reactions.

*****

Hermione craned her neck while shifting her weight from one foot to the other and back. The heavy duelling robes she wore felt stiff and unnatural after getting used to robes that floated over her skin. She also felt very vulnerable without the protection spells she had woven into her personal robes. It couldn’t be helped though - all duelists had to wear magic-free clothes to prevent people from using enchanted robes to cheat. She was waiting for her turn, against a 6th year from Durmstrang. Her lower lip had already borne the results of her nervousness. She knew she was a skilled witch, she had done well facing Lupin and Sirius, and yet she was nervous. Her opponent had two years more experience, more lessons on her, and came from Durmstrang, which had a quite deserved reputation of favoring combat spells, with less discrimination against dark spells than Hogwarts or Beauxbatons. And here she was, a mere muggleborn fourth year. A fact she counted on exploiting.

“Next fight in ring three: Hermione Granger, Hogwarts, versus Petar Draganov, Durmstrang!”

Hermione looked up. Her turn. While she stepped up to her starting position she studied her opponent. He was as tall and muscular as Krum, but had the same sneer as Malfoy. She took care to stumble when climbing up the stairs to the ring, and noticed Draganov was smirking. She took her place and faced him, hunching her shoulders a bit. His smirk widened. Good.

“Bow!” 

She bowed, deeper than she would have normally. Let him think she was scared and intimidated.

“Wands ready!”

She raised her wand, in the ‘guard’ position.

“Start!”

Hermione slashed her wand down, sending a cutting curse at her opponent while stepping to the side. A red stunner flew past her, and Draganov barely managed to shield her spell, eyes wide with surprise. Hermione was already casting a barrage of minor hexes, all hitting his shield, drawing his attention. She dodged the next stunner of his, and let a number of her next hexes miss deliberately. He grinned behind his shield. As planned. His next spell was an expelliarmus, which almost hit her. She had to drop to the floor to evade it. Rolling she came up in the classic duelling position - what Sirius called useless in the field - with her right side facing him and her wand arm pointing straight at him. Three more spells flew at Draganov, two impacting on his shield, which still held - unsurprisingly, those were weak hexes - the third passing him, before striking the stone right behind him, and exploding in a shower of stone shards. A few hit his legs, causing superficial, but painful wounds. His shield wavered and her next spell, a stunner, collapsed it and took him out.

“Winner by Incapacitation: Hermione Granger, Hogwarts!”

Hermione smiled widely wand raised, and bowed to her enervated opponent, who was shaking his head with a rueful grin before returning her bow. She spotted Harry wildly cheering for her, and beamed at him, before bowing into his direction.

*****

“Next fight in ring two: Hermione Granger, Hogwarts, versus Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts.”

Draco couldn’t hide his glee. This was perfect - he would be able to teach the mudblood servant of his greatest rival her place! Beating the Beauxbatons boy - he had already forgotten his name - had been great, but this was better! Grinning, he swaggered to the duel ring, head held high. He was Draco Malfoy, scion of the Malfoy Family. Trained by his father and bloodied in real combat. Mere duels were almost beneath him, as his first fight had proven when his opponent had been defeated by one of his family spells that poisoned him through his weak shield and brought him to his knees with pain. He sent a smile towards his girlfriend, waving at her. She waved back, as she should.

The mudblood was facing him, her face showing that she had realized in what peril she was. He grinned savagely at her, savoring the moment. He had beaten a 6th year pureblood, granted, a French one, but what resistance could a mere mudblood offer to him after his experiences during the Summer?

“Bow!”

He inclined his head. That was as much of a bow as the mudblood deserved. 

  
“Wands ready!”

His wand rose. He would not take her out right away. He’d hit her with a few spells first, make her bleed, before poisoning her.

“Start!”

The mudblood was fast, Draco had to admit. Fast, but weak - his shield had no trouble stopping her spells. And she couldn’t cast a Shield Charm spell herself, so she had to dodge his spells, tiring herself out. Then a blue glow surrounded her, and stopped his jelly-leg jinx. He frowned. So she could shield. No matter. It was time to end this farce. A green cloud shot towards her, no shield would stop that. He grinned in anticipation when suddenly the cloud was coming back at him! Before he could react he was surrounded by the cloud. He had a brief moment to panic before pain filled him and he collapsed, screaming. His father had told him that compared to the Cruciatus Curse, this was nothing, but Draco couldn’t imagine pain stronger than this. He barely heard the announcer over his own screaming.

“Winner by Incapacitation: Hermione Granger, Hogwarts!”

*****

“Next fight in ring one: Hermione Granger, Hogwarts, versus Marie-Anne Dubois, Beauxbatons.”

Hermione’s next opponent was a slim girl, 7th year, with long, blonde hair. Not a Veela, but she could pass for one with a few spells, the young witch noted with some jealousy. And judging from the way she eyed her, not one to underestimate a 4th year student either.

“Bow!”

Hermione bowed, deeply. She still was angry at the slight from Malfoy during their duel. But then, he had been shaking, screaming with pain until his father had come running in to cancel it. Hoisted by his own petard, served that git well. Ron had taken particular pleasure in the sight of Malfoy in pain, after his own defeat in his second fight against a 6th year student from Durmstrang.

  
“Wands ready!”

Hermione raised her wand and met the girl’s eyes.

“Start!”

Unlike her tactics in the duel with Malfoy, here Hermione opted to strike as fast and hard as she could right away - she doubted she could outlast the other witch. Her first stunner was deflected by a shield. Her next spells were dodged. Her first trick would not work here, she realized, while dodging a series of Body-Binding Curses and Stunners herself, shielding the last one, but with some trouble - the French witch was powerful. Before she could retaliate, a swarm of birds flew at her, and she barely managed to drive them away with the wind spell that had returned Malfoy’s poison cloud at him. While she had been doing that though, Dubois had conjured more animals. Two great dogs charged her, and while she managed to drive one out of the ring with a bludgeoner, the other jumped at her, and dragged her to the ground. A piercing curse to the head took care of it, but the other dog was already returning, and an eagle was diving at her from the other side. For a moment she was tempted to use one of her custom spells, but… this was just a duel. Not a fight for her life.

Cursing, she dove forward, rolling to avoid the eagle, and cast the strongest stunner she could at her opponent. It was stopped by a shield, even though the shield itself broken, and then she screamed when the dog sunk his teeth into her left arm. The eagle struck at her shoulder, barely missing her head, and another dog appeared between her and the other witch. She tried to ignore the pain, focusing on her opponent, and cast another stunner, but the new dog jumped into it, and then she, the first dog and the eagle were pushed out of the ring by an expelliarmus, landing in a heap on the stone ground below. Just before she lost consciousness she heard the announcer.

“Winner by Ejection: Marie-Anne Dubois, Beauxbatons!”

*****

Harry was watching Hermione in the infirmary, waiting for her to wake up. That last fight… seeing her mauled by those animals had been horrible. The wounds had been easily healed, the robe repaired, but the memories of her screaming, hurting, bleeding…

With a groan, his best friend woke up. “Hello Hermione.” He smiled at her. 

She smiled in return, then frowned. “I have underestimated the use of conjuration.”

“You did well, reaching the best 16 as a 4th year student.” He smiled. “And you didn’t use your best spells.”

“I couldn’t. The rumors that would spread, the damage it would do to your reputation, and mine… I’ll save those for a real fight.“ Hermione lifted her left arm, looking for scars, probably.

“There’s no scarring,” he reassured her.

“Did you check personally?”

Harry gaped at the implication. “No, no! The healer told me.” He must have sounded very appalled at the question since she giggled a bit. His pout caused her to giggle some more.

“Who won the competition?”

“A witch from Durmstrang, Katarzyna Swiech I believe. I recorded her duel with Cedric Diggory with my Omnioculars so you can watch it later. Your last opponent took 4th place.”

Hermione nodded at that. “Some consolation, at least. I need more training.”

“You’ll get it. In three years you’ll walk all over students like her.”

Neither he nor his friend added ‘if we’re still alive by then’, but both thought it.

*****

Barty Crouch Jr. hummed a little ditty while spotting a particularly interesting tome, next to the cooling body of the tome’s former owner. For such a weak wizard he had had a great collection of works dealing with the Dark Arts. Rather incomplete, though, but there were a few gems Barty hadn’t know to have survived the purges in the 18th century. He was tempted to indulge his intellectual curiosity for a bit, but then reminded himself that he was here on his master’s orders. Though stealing the books would likely serve as a good cover for his real goal; the rare and highly illegal ingredients the man had dealt with, and which were needed for his master’s resurrection. Not that the fire he’d leave wouldn’t consume all traces anyway, and probably burn down the next houses in the alley as well, but with a task so important, failsafes were a must. It would be a catastrophe should his master’s enemies learn of his plans before he was returned to his rightful stature and power. Still humming a ditty he started to collect the potion ingredients he needed, storing them in his mokeskin pouch.

******* **


	6. The Yule Ball

**Chapter 6: The Yule Ball**

Ron Weasley was sitting in the Gryffindor common room, waiting for Harry and Hermione to return from the infirmary. He was a bit irked that he hadn’t been allowed to enter as well, but on the other hand he was glad they had tightened up security. And to be honest, he would not have wanted to see Hermione lying there, hurt and bleeding and helpless. Nor Harry in his usual state when the girl was hurt.

He summoned a butterbeer and some snacks Parvati’s mother had sent from the basket floating around the room, then blinked and tried to remember when he had last contributed to the “common room fund”. He didn’t count his mum’s cake last week, that was sort of a family contribution. Deciding it had been long enough he pulled out a galleon, flipped it into the air and banished it towards small box for donations. He was ready with a Levitation Charm when it reached the box, and gently guided it into the slit in the top there.

“Smooth.”

Ron turned his head towards the sound and smiled. Parvati Patil looked impressed by his brief display of precision casting. “I try,” he answered, modestly, though his grin was anything but modest.

“You were very impressive today. You beat that Beauxbatons student handily, and she was two years your senior.” The half-blood beamed at him.

“She underestimated me, but yes, I did well in that fight,” Ron answered. And he had - his shield had held, and his stunners had been well-aimed, boxing the witch in and driving her into his next stunner. Like Remus had taught him. He frowned. “I got steamrollered in the next fight though. Those spells from that Durmstrang student just shattered my shield.”

“Steamrollered?” Parvati looked confused.

“A word from Hermione. It means the same as “bludgered” here,” Ron explained. He could see Parvati’s slight frown at that. As he had expected. He was not the smoothest wizard, but one could not be Harry and Hermione’s best friend for years and not learn at least something about the finer points of social climbing. And he had eyes, ears, and a sister in Gryffindor. Hermione might be too noble to sabotage her dorm mates’ dreams of dates to the Yule Ball, but Ginny certainly wasn’t. Now to drive the point home. 

He lifted his snack. “I really like this. At the Yule Ball I’ll have to ask Padma for some good Indian dishes to order then. It might even be a challenge for the kitchen.” He kept his face bland and earnest, but inwardly he was enjoying the witch’s thin-lipped smile.

“I could help you there. I know all about Indian Cuisine.” Parvati didn’t give up quickly, he had to admit. The way she was leaning forward, not quite touching him… she’d be cutting a swath through the school in 6th year. He waved her off. “Ah, thank you, but I want to coordinate with Padma. Twice the dishes to sample, if we pick different things. And as her date, I will of course let her choose.”

That did it. “Ah, how gallant of you. My sister is a lucky witch.” Parvati’s smile was quite forced now, but she managed to gracefully retreat to Lavender, who was waiting in the wings. Ron wasn’t sure if Parvati had been talking to him because he had asked her sister and not herself to the Yule Ball, or if she had been testing the waters for her friend, but he didn’t care. Even if he had been interested, he had already asked Padma, which Hermione assured him was a smart witch and nice to talk to, and he’d not go back on that. Not that Parvati had been the only witch praising him for his performance.

A murmur that sprang up drew his attention to the door that had just opened. Harry and Hermione had arrived! He waved at them and looked both over while they made their way through a quickly formed throng of well-wishers and friends. Both looked well, so there must not have been any complications in the infirmary.

“And the heroine of the day arrives!” He summoned two more butterbeers for them and grinned at the slight blush on his friend’s face. She didn’t like it when she was teased, even if it was a mostly honest compliment. She had done well, after all, better than he had done. But then, knowing her, he had expected that. After casting a privacy spell, as much for privacy as for simply dampening the noise from a mostly full common room so they could easily talk, he continued: “I guess you have already altered your studying plans to incorporate more transfigurations and conjurations.”

Harry smirked, and Ron knew he had sunk the quaffle. His other best friend pouted. “Am I really that transparent?”

“Only to those who know you well.” he added with a smile. ‘Not as well as I’d like’ remained unsaid.

“I’ll need to adjust my tactics too. Indirect attacks require a different set up. I am still not convinced they are superior to my preferred spell choice, but I can’t dismiss their use in certain situations,” the young witch explained, between sips from her bottle. That was, he knew, Hermione-speak for ‘I realized I was wrong, but don’t want to admit it right now’. He didn’t quite grin, but he felt vindicated - he had told her that one could not entirely rely on direct attacks, as she called them. Not that it had helped him much; that 6th year student had demolished his own conjured help with demoralizing ease before knocking him out.

The rest of the evening they discussed duelling tactics and watched the recording of the final match of the competition in Harry’s omnioculars.

*****

“That mudblood! How low must one sink to turn my own family’s spells against me? A honourable opponent would not even have thought of such!” Draco was pacing in the Slytherin common room, fortunately behind privacy spells, even though anyone knowing him could probably tell exactly what he was saying from his expression and gestures. 

Pansy kept her supportive smile in place instead of telling her boyfriend that one witch taking control of a transfigured creature from her opponent had decided one semi-final. It wasn’t as if Draco would let reality intrude in his world even if it brought gifts. 

Instead she said: “Of course not, Draco. But it’s an international competition. As you said, foreign standards are different, and so Granger’s actions couldn’t be sanctioned. Maybe you can show our class how to duel properly next time we spar in Defense?” She sat with her legs crossed at the ankles and pushed under the couch and her upper body leaning forward, attentively, as if she was hanging on the lips of Draco. He ate it up and struck a pose straight out of a play.

“Oh, that is an idea, Pansy! I’ll teach that mudblood how a Malfoy duels when the rules are not favoring underhanded tactics! She will rue the day she dared to cross me!”

Pansy had to make an effort to keep her smile from showing her satisfaction. She should have been surprised that Draco just denounced what most of their House would call cunning tactics, but she knew him too well. That he had apparently forgotten that they would use the same rules when they dueled in class - the standards of the International Duelling Circuit Federation - as they had used at the Triwizard Tournament Duelling Competition she had also expected. ‘Too easy’ she thought, ‘but it should still be amusing.’ 

“What did your father say about your performance in the competition?” Draco had reached the second round, which had been a surprise for everyone but for Pansy, who had known about his plans to use a family spell. She had won quite a little sum from Housemates betting on Draco losing in the first round. Crabbe and Goyle had won their bets as well, but Pansy wasn’t sure if they had known or counted on that spell as well, or simply bet on Draco out of stupidity or blind loyalty.

Draco sat down next to her, pouting. “He lectured me about exposing a family secret for a ‘mere school competition’, and I had to promise not to use any other spell he taught me in public.” Her boyfriend sneered in an imitation of his father that probably was meant to be derisive, but simply looked just like his usual sneer. “Mother was very proud though.”

Pansy doubted that. Narcissa Malfoy had never struck her as a simple witch. She thought it more likely that Mrs Malfoy had let Draco’s father do the lecture instead of doing it herself. It was what she would have done in her place. If she would ever let any future child of hers grow up as spoiled and stupid as Draco, of course. 

While Draco prattled on about what he was expecting as Yule gifts from his family, Pansy pondered Granger’s performance in the competition. She had done better than expected, even counting the fact that one of her opponents had been Draco, but she had shown a surprising lack of variety in spell choices. A weakness Pansy would be quick to exploit, should they ever cross wands for real. She’d not make the same mistakes as Draco had done.

Draco… at first it had been an amusing game, manipulating the idiot. Playing the besotted girlfriend. Using him for pranks and getting him into trouble was such a rush. But this term, Draco had changed. He hadn’t gotten any smarter or more skilled, but he had grown more cruel. Less inhibited. Pansy had been sure so far she could drop him whenever she wanted to by orchestrating an embarrassing incident that gave her enough of an excuse to ‘finally see the light and drop the git’, but lately she had been wondering if Draco would accept such an outcome, or do something… foolish.

*****

Harry Potter, Hermione and Ron were watching the recording from the final match again later that week, with Sirius and Remus, who were going over the spells and tactics used by both duelists. Both were pointing out how some spells were a bad choice outside a duel, or a less than optimal choice.

“If you have a killing shot, take it. A dead enemy cannot be enervated, healed, or otherwise used against you,” Sirius said. “At least not until someone turns the body into an Inferius, but that takes longer than a fight usually lasts, and if you let an enemy do that you deserve getting eaten.” Then he winked at Harry and added: “And not in the good way.” Harry fought the urge to hex his godfather. 

“I wish I had succeeded in getting my walkman to work. I could have borrowed my parent’s camcorder, and Harry could have recorded the whole tournament, and we could watch it on a television screen, pause and even use slow motion.” Hermione sighed. Her experiments had shown progress, or so she claimed, but she still had wrecked both electronic gadgets she had brought with her.

“Muggles have pensieves now?” Sirius was blinking in surprise.

“No, they just found ways to record things for the television, remember Lily’s explanation?” Remus corrected him. 

“When we accidentally blew her parents’ television up? Yes, I’ll never forget that lecture. Or that hex.” Sirius shuddered, then sent Harry a glance. 

His godfather had commented a few times, usually when drunk, that he felt guilty that Harry had no good memories of his parents’ time together - Petunia hadn’t known much, due to the war and the need of secrecy. Harry smiled at him. He loved hearing such stories about his parents, and he was sure he would get the whole story out of his godfather later. The young wizard patted Hermione’s thigh when he heard her mutter about wizards not getting it. She had gotten better - or more resigned - about it. A year ago she’d have tried to explain and correct the two wizards.

“Alright. Due to popular demand…” Sirius coughed and wriggled his eyebrows at Hermione who sniffed at his antics, “... we will teach you how to use transfiguration and conjuration in battle today. Or start on it, at least, so you can train by yourself while we resume Harry’s training in dealing with water-based threats. Everybody, pay attention! This is how to create a cat from a bunch of rubble. You’ll be able to scale that up to a lion later, but I’d rather deal with a cat than a lion if you lose control.”

Harry and his two friends stood up and paid attention, then tried it themselves. It was far harder than it looked, and Harry quickly understood why it was not a really popular tactic for the average wizard. His first attempt was looking like a cat built from cobblestones glued together, if one squinted. And it moved like one too, that is, not at all. Hermione’s was moving at least, if reduced to stumbling around, while Ron had created a decent copy of Crookshanks’ head, without a body. It still managed to meow, which was so creepy, Harry couldn’t help but shudder at the sight. His retainer, of course, thought the crime against nature was cute. But then, she thought Crookshanks was cute, and that little devil was the ugliest cat Harry had ever seen. Even Ron, who spoiled the beast rotten, admitted that.

Sirius was laughing like a hyena, and even Remus was showing far more amusement than the faint smile he usually had for the trio’s antics. Harry quickly exchanged glances with his friends, and a salvo of minor hexes turned their instructor’s laughs into cries of surprise and dismay. They paid for that though - at the end of the lesson, each of the three was sporting numerous scratches that the cats had accidentally caused, or so the two older wizards claimed.

Harry didn’t mind. It had been a good lesson, informative and entertaining. And after dealing with fire drakes trying to disembowel him, scratches from cats did not really concern him much. Though seeing red lines crisscross over Hermione’s arm and hands made him swear revenge, of course. She was his retainer, it was his duty after all.

*****

Shopping for dress robes with Luna Lovegood was an experience. A unique experience, Hermione Granger had found out. The young blonde witch was dashing around in “Seamstress Sophia’s Shop” in Hogsmeade, pulling out dresses with her wand and floating them in front of her or Hermione seemingly at random, often returning them with an inane comment before Hermione managed to get a good look at them in one of the floating mirrors that trailed the two of them. After twenty minutes of those antics, ten of which her Patron had spent openly chuckling from the seat he had conjured for himself, she had had enough. “Luna!”

The blonde girl froze for a moment, in the middle of summoning a frilly pink robe Hermione wanted to burn at first sight, and turned her head towards her without moving the rest of her body. “Yes, Hermione?”

“Do you know what kind of robe you want to buy?” Hermione forced herself to remain polite, and not let her frustration show. She was used to planning her purchases in advance as much as possible, and narrowing down the selection in a methodical manner. “If you do we can pick a matching or complementary robe for me.”

“Of course!” Luna beamed at her. “Let me show you!” With that the witch grabbed her hand and pulled her with surprising force over to a section of color-changing robes, pointing at what Hermione would have thought was a cape, if not for the thin, shimmering bands of fabric floating in front of it. “It won’t get boring during the ball since it will be changing colors!”

Hermione stared at the robe for a moment, then glanced over at Luna, who had already summoned a screen and thrown her robe over it. “Luna?”

“Just a moment!” came the perky reply, and a camisole joined the robe on the screen, then a wand held by a slender hand appeared over them, and a flick later the dress Luna had shown Hermione floated over and disappeared behind the screen.

A few moments later the screen, still serving as a rack for Luna’s clothes, slid to the side and revealed Luna, wearing her chosen dress robe. Which still looked like a cape to Hermione, though one that moved by itself. Underneath it Luna was clothed in thin sashes that wrapped themselves around her body before coming together in a kind of shred fringe that formed a skirt, of sorts. Both the sashes as well as the cape were moving and changing their colors. Hermione imagined herself wearing a matching outfit, and couldn’t help but blush. 

“How does it look?” Luna asked, with a beaming smile. “The outer robe looks a bit stuffy, but it’s winter after all, and we can always drop it if it things become heated.”

“Very daring,” Hermione managed to answer, wondering briefly if Luna was flirting with her, or if she was reading too much into what might simply be a poorly worded comment about the expected temperature in the Great Hall during the ball. “We should look now for a robe for me that goes well with your robe.” She wasn’t going to wear the same style, she thought to herself. Then she noticed Harry was staring at Luna from his seat, and narrowed her eyes at the quick stab of jealousy she felt. “Maybe we can link two of those robes with an enchantment, so we’re always wearing complementary colors?”

“Oh, a great idea! Are you sure you can enchant them that way?” Luna clapped her hands enthusiastically at the idea.

Hermione studied the garment more closely, running her wand over it to check the enchantments. Satisfied with her findings she nodded at Luna. “Yes, I should be able to. And probably add some personal touches and tweaks.” She grabbed a robe and held it up to her own body, smirking when she noticed Harry blinking in surprise. 

Then her view of him was cut off by the screen Luna had called back, and Hermione barely managed not to yelp when she felt Luna’s hands on her, tugging at her robes. “Come on, Hermione, time to strip naked!”

“What?”

“You can’t wear anything under that robe, silly.” Luna explained while trying to pull Hermione’s robe off the girl - without any success, of course, due to her enchantments on the robe. But those hands were wandering around a bit too much for the muggleborn witch’s comfort.

“Ah… wait a second…” Hermione managed to extricate herself from the blonde’s grasping but probably, hopefully, innocent hands, and used her wand to lift her robe off her, quickly followed by her underwear - just in case Luna wanted to help her again. The girl seemed to have a quite different idea of personal space than anyone else Hermione knew. Unless she knew exactly what she was doing - it was impossible to tell with the blonde witch. She flicked her wand and her garments joined Luna’s on the screen.

The new robe wrapped itself around her on command, and when Hermione looked into one of the floating mirrors she had to tell herself she was wearing more than she usually wore at a beach. Several times. Fortunately, the mirror’s own comments were tasteful and polite - and helpful. Quite unlike some of the mirrors at Grimmauld Place, whose lewd suggestions were often anything but.

Just as she was getting more or less comfortable in her new robes the screen slid to the side, and she heard Harry gasp and Luna giggle.

Yes, shopping with Luna was a unique experience. 

*****

“Today we will be learning about the Unforgivables.” 

Mad-Eye Moody was pacing in front of the class, managing to look like a caged tiger despite his peg leg. It was the 18th of December, and he was filling in for Remus Lupin. Like every month. Hermione still couldn’t understand how the werewolf teacher hadn’t been outed yet - though she wasn’t complaining, of course. “Who can name one of them?”

Hermione had started to raise her hand before he had even finished the question. She had read up about the Unforgivables years ago. One tended to learn such things as the retainer of the Boy-Who-Lived. A glance told her that Harry was smirking, and she pouted just a bit. He still tended to be amused by her eagerness in class, no matter how much she toned it down. Which she had.

“Granger!” Moody barked, his artificial eye rolling around and staring at her for an instant before moving again.

“The Imperius Curse, Professor.” As a first year, she’d have named all three. She had learned since.

“Correct. Who can name another? Brown!” Hermione saw Lavender jerk with surprise at being called without having raised her hand.

“The Killing Curse.”

“Correct. And the last one? Potter!” 

“The Cruciatus Curse.” Hermione snuck a glance at Neville. His parents had been tortured into insanity with that curse, and the young wizard was struggling to keep a neutral expression.

“Correct. Why are they called the Unforgivables? Granger?”

“Because casting one on a wizard or witch is punished by imprisonment for life, Sir.” Hermione quoted the textbook definition. She wasn’t sure if casting one of those on a normal human would be punished the same - she hadn’t found a precedent. 

“Right. They also have other characteristics unique to them. Shield Charms cannot stop them. The only defense is to dodge or take cover - and either action is damned difficult if you’re up against a competent caster.” Moody glared at the class with his natural eye while the enchanted one whirled around wildly, scanning for enemies, hidden or not. “And they need the caster to truly want his target dominated, dead or suffering. That emotional component is another unique characteristic of those spells. Other spells are affected by the caster’s emotions, but only those three spells require it.”

“We’ll start with the Imperius Curse. That nasty spell allows the caster to take total control over the target. Any order you give will be executed, as if one was commanding a construct. Any order, that is, no matter how cruel. No matter how insane. You will do your best to at least try to execute it. But a few things you will not be able to do.” The old auror narrowed his good eye and stared at Malfoy. “You cannot cast an Unforgivable while you’re under the Imperius. The spell’s control is such that you cannot muster the emotions needed to cast an Unforgivable.” Malfoy swallowed, but kept staring at the Auror, who grinned maliciously. “And that means that if you see anyone casting an Unforgivable, they are not under the Imperius.”

“Now, the Killing Curse. Unstoppable, unresistable. Only one wizard ever has survived it.” Everyone in the classroom looked at Harry. Even Hermione glanced at her Patron, to see how he was taking this. He was staring at the teacher, and seemed to be holding up well. Moody continued: “No one knows how Potter managed that, and I do not recommend that anyone else try to repeat the feat. The Killing Curse instantly slays you. No wound is left, no blood is spilled, you’re simply dead. Supposedly it is painless, but so far no ghost has appeared who could have confirmed that.”

“And then we have the Cruciatus Curse. Being hit by it feels like a thousand burning knives stabbing into your skin. The pain is worse than anything you can imagine.” He grinned at the class again. “Even giving birth pales against it, or so I have been told. I can tell you from my own experience that it is worse than getting your nuts crushed.” The auror laughed briefly. “Only the worst wizards use it, since it has a single purpose: to cause as much pain as possible. For everything else you have better spells.”

Hermione wanted to correct him - she thought that the Cruciatus Curse, for its ability to bypass a shield, would make a great tool to incapacitate someone quickly - but held her tongue. To voice such thoughts, no matter how logical, would stain both her and Harry’s reputation. She glanced over at Neville again. Their friend was sweating, his jaws clenched together, but he was still holding up. He was in Gryffindor, after all.

Moody continued. “The Cruciatus is a sustained spell. If you’re held under it long enough the pain gets too big and you lose your mind.” He glanced over at Neville, who was staring at his desk and breathing heavily. “Now, we will discuss the history of those spells, from their creation to the time they were outlawed.” 

Hermione started to eagerly take notes - she might learn something she hadn’t researched yet.

*****

The second Yuletide in Sirius’ house was quite different from the first, Harry thought happily. Back then, in his and Hermione’s third year, Sirius had just been exonerated, the house had been a mess of curses, pests and filth, neglected by a deranged house elf. Harry, Hermione, Remus and Sirius had been using the kitchen, the only clean and safe spot in the building, to hold the ceremony at the family altar and exchange gifts. Everyone had still been very careful to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings by accident, with Sirius feeling guilty about abandoning Harry to chase after Wormtail, Remus feeling guilty for not believing in Sirius or trying to get him a trial, Hermione feeling guilty for not realizing why Crookshanks was going after Wormtail despite knowing that kneazles had a reputation to sniff out lies, and Harry feeling guilty for wishing they had done this at the Grangers’ instead. Despite that it had been a happy occasion, and not just because Sirius had given him a Firebolt. It had hinted at a better future for everyone, a shared desire to make this work.

This year’s Yuletide was what everyone had hoped for back then, at least that was Harry’s impression. The house had been cleaned and refurbished, the curses and dark items had been removed and Kreacher was … more polite. He still called Hermione “Master’s Godson’s slave”, but everyone ignored that after Hermione had claimed the elf wouldn’t know better with his history of service to the Black family. Harry had thought the claim sounded a bit forced, but he hadn’t pressed his friend. House elves were a volatile subject for Hermione.

Apart from Hermione, who according to Sirius might as well be moving in officially, they had other guests as well. Sirius’ cousin, Andromeda Black-Tonks, was visiting with her husband Ted and their daughter Nymphadora. The Head of the Black-Tonks family was a beautiful witch with perfect manners, a biting wit and pride to spare. Harry could see how she had chosen to be emancipated and left without a knut from her family rather than remain under the thumb of the husband of the harpy whose portrait had taken two curse-breakers and a new wall to get rid of. Her husband Ted, a half-blood, was a jovial wizard who seemed to be easy-going but observant. Both worked as lawyers specializing in contract work, or so Harry had understood. He knew the Wizengamot had only allowed their marriage after their daughter had been revealed to be a metamorphmagus, able to assume any human shape she chose to. The belief that this rarest of magical talents could only be the result of a union blessed by magic itself was widespread, and no member of the Wizengamot wanted to be seen as opposing magic's will. Nymphadora - she had quickly taught both Harry and Sirius to never shorten her given name - was currently attending the auror training course and shared both the love of pranks and of lewd jokes and remarks with Sirius. Fortunately, her parents managed to rein her in some. Usually.

They were sitting in the salon, next to the lavishly decorated family altar upon which the gifts for the gods were slowly consumed by a magical fire. As Sirius had explained it was bad luck to pass out the gifts for the mortals before the gods had had their due. To Harry’s ears it sounded more tradition than faith though. Not that he’d mention that - religion was a tricky topic of conversation. He and Hermione had found out that in their first year.

He glanced over to his best friend, sitting next to him with a couple of his presents in her lap, ready to pass them out. Their gifts, actually, but the little fiction of her passing his gifts out allowed Hermione to attend the family gathering as his retainer, since the Black-Tonkses were not yet close enough to family to let go of the conventions of polite society in their presence. With the way things were going though Harry was sure that would change soon.

Sirius had been peering at the altar for several minutes now, visibly impatient, and finally stood up. “The gifts for the gods are now sufficiently given!” he announced. “It’s time to pass out our presents!” With a swish of his wand he summoned a mass of brightly-wrapped presents of various sizes that floated around him. Harry knew that the size or even shape of a present’s wrapping was no indication of what was contained within, but he couldn’t help but speculate when a star-shaped present floated over to Remus, and a square one to Andromeda while Nymphadora had to duck a round one that kept trying to smash into her like a bludger on the pitch until she immobilized it with her wand. The young Auror glared at Sirius and everyone else, in case anyone dared to laugh openly.

Harry got a square-shaped one, almost bigger than his torso, as well as another that seemed to change shape constantly, both from Sirius, and a few smaller ones from Remus and the Black-Tonkses. Hermione passed out his own gifts with precise movements of her wand, floating them over to their recipients. The gifts for the Black-Tonks were nothing too personal, the latest dictaquills with translation functions for the parents, and a mokeskin wand holster for Nymphadora. Remus, always a tricky one to give a present to, with his tendency to refuse ‘handouts’, received a beautiful robe he could not take offense to thanks to the protective spells Harry and Hermione had personally enchanted it with, turning it from an expensive gift into a homemade one. The look he sent at both of them after checking the enchantments said he understood just what they had done. Harry grinned at him in response. Sirius, who had more money than he knew what to do with, in his own words, got a muggle bathrobe with a more than passing resemblance to the usual attire of a certain muggle publisher and mansion owner. His delighted whoop proved that this was an aspect of muggle culture he was quite familiar with, as Hermione had predicted.

Harry’s first gift from Sirius shrunk down when he opened it, revealing a smaller case made of polished wood. Inside was a beautifully crafted retainer’s collar. Any mayor whose chain of office paled next to it would be envious. It was actually Hermione’s gift, but custom prevented Sirius from giving it to her directly. Harry smiled at his godfather, and picked the chain up. “My Wand.”

  
“My Patron.” Hermione lowered her head towards him.

Harry placed the chain on her shoulders, admiring how well it went with her dress robes. He was about to conjure a mirror for Hermione when there was a blinding flash and Hermione was left wearing a dog collar with him holding a leash. Nothing but a dog collar, he realized with sudden horror, but he couldn’t help staring while Sirius was laughing loudly and the others were split between amusement and disapproval. Remus managed to project both.

Hermione growled, and pulled out a small red stone from … her thigh? Harry blinked as she crushed the stone, triggering the enchantment she had placed on Sirius’ robe, ‘just in case he does something stupid’. Seeing Sirius wearing a muzzle and a pink straitjacket with ‘Mad Dog’ printed on it and hearing his muzzled complaints drove Remus into outright laughter as well, quickly followed by their guests.

“That should teach him a lesson,” Hermione stated, in a satisfied tone. Harry was still staring, unable to understand why no one else was reacting to her lack of robes and anything else. His best friend noticed his blush, and looked puzzled. “Can you let go of the leash, Harry?” she whispered and raised her wand. “I want to get rid of the spell.”

As soon as he let go of the leather strap he saw Hermione wearing her dress robes. Taking a deep breath, he glared at his godfather, who was smirking at him behind his muzzle and wriggling his eyebrows. If Hermione ever found out about that part of Sirius’s prank, she would neuter Sirius. Or Harry. Or both. He spent the next minute frantically undoing the charms on the collar, and the rest of the evening trying to ignore the memories of what he had seen. He wasn’t successful in the least.

Everyone else though considered the Yuletide a very successful evening and was looking forward to the next year already.

*****

Harry was standing in the entrance hall of No. 12, Grimmauld Place, waiting for Hermione to come down from her room, where she was getting ready. Technically it was a guest room, but she lived there as much as in her parent’s home, so everyone, even Kreacher, called it her room. Sirius had placed her next to Harry’s room, but his stated intent to create a door connecting the two rooms had not been implemented. Fortunately, for Harry’s peace of mind. Since Sirius’s Yuletide prank his dreams had gotten far more vivid and tempting. At least he had managed, after the first night, to look at her again without imagining her naked. He shook his head to banish those particular memories. Fortunately she thought he was simply embarrassed by the implications of the part of Sirius’s prank she was aware of, and even had taken to tease him some about it. Harry had ranted earlier today at Sirius for pulling such a prank on him and her, but his godfather had shrugged it off with a grin, and then told him about the time Harry’s father and Sirius had placed a spell on the mirrors in the female dorm at Hogwarts that projected their images on another set of mirrors. Harry loved his godfather, but he was so often so exasperating...

The young wizard sighed and focused on the schedule for the evening. He would hand his retainer over to Luna Lovegood for the evening, as custom demanded. Then he would floo to the mansion of the Bones family, where his own date waited, while the two girls would floo straight to Hogwarts. Luna was already waiting in the entrance hall with him - if one could call flitting around the hall, peering and poking at things with open curiosity, ‘waiting’. Currently she was frowning at the hollowed out troll leg serving as an umbrella stand. He could not fathom why wizards would need such a thing, since he hadn’t seen an umbrella anywhere in the Magical World so far. Neither did he understand why Sirius had not gotten rid of it. Nymphadora kept tripping over it each time she visited. Which, he realized, was why exactly Sirius had kept the umbrella stand. 

As expected Luna was wearing the dress robes she had bought in Hogsmeade, which Hermione had later modified with some of her own spells. The scarves - or ribbons, Harry thought, given how thin they were - now floated rather than wrapped around her body, and the cape part did not simply move, but changed shape, forming a cloak on command which looked far more appropriate to the season than a flimsy cape, even though Warming Charms meant neither was actually needed to ward off the cold. 

Sirius was standing next to Harry, passing the time with an entirely inappropriate tale about his own experiences at a Yule Ball 20 years ago, while Remus was keeping an eye on Luna, and answering about half of her rapid-fire questions about everything that caught her attention.

Then, finally, Hermione appeared on top of the stairs. She was wearing the same dress robes Luna wore, but they looked different on her, somehow. Harry couldn’t explain the difference. Or anything else when he saw her wearing those moving ribbons, and smiling at him when she started to descend. Until Sirius wolf-whistled, and Hermione narrowed her eyes at his godfather. Followed by Luna’s squeal of delight at the sight of her date. Both robes did synchronize as soon as they got closer, Harry noticed, grateful for the distraction.

“My Patron.” Hermione bowed.

“My Wand.” Harry turned to Luna. “Miss Lovegood, I trust you with my retainer’s safety and virtue for the evening.”

“Mister Potter, I accept this responsibility, and will return her to you safe and sound,” Luna answered in a serious tone, which changed at once when she took Hermione’s hand and broke out in a wide, infectious smile. “We will have such a great evening!”

After a series of pictures had been taken by the older wizards they went over to the floo, where Harry split off to travel to the home of the Bones family, to fetch his date.

*****

The Great Hall, usually amazing enough already, was a fantastic sight. Expanded to provide enough room for all the guests, it had more than doubled in size. Illusionary snow fell from the ceiling, catching the light from the equally illusionary moon shining down on the guests. Smaller, round tables were placed around a shining dance floor that looked like the Black Lake frozen over without any snow or scratch marring the surface. Trays floated around, providing the guests with a variety of food and drink from all over the Magical World, with an emphasis on the countries represented by the three schools, of course, but Hermione Granger had seen Indian snacks on a tray near Padma and Ron.

Hermione wished she could take out her wand and analyse some of the spellwork; she was sure it would give help her a lot in developing her own enchantments and spells. The young witch was standing next to her date, Luna Lovegood, lined up with the other couples and waiting for the Champions and their dates to make their entrance. After the Yule Ceremony they’d open the ball. The matching outfits of the two young witches had drawn quite the attention from friends and fellow students, which Hermione had, if a bit guiltily, enjoyed very much. Just as she had enjoyed Harry’s reaction at Grimmauld Place.

She felt rather than saw Luna starting to fidget, again, and took the blonde’s hand into her own, whispering: “It won’t be much longer.” Next to them stood Neville, dressed in expensive but a tad too old-fashioned robes, with Ginny, who was wearing the dress robes Ron had bought her as a Yuletide gift. The robes were well-made and looked their price, but judging by the looks the redhead had been giving her and Luna, Ginny would have preferred a more daring design. She was out of luck though, it had taken Hermione quite some time to persuade Ron that his little sister was not so little anymore. His first choice as a robe for Ginny would have had the youngest Weasley hex him into the infirmary.

Ron himself was wearing new dress robes as well, fashionable ones. They didn’t look at all like the horridly gaudy ensemble he had shown her as a joke right before the end of the term. A joke she had fallen for, she had to admit - she had been winding up for a desperately needed lesson in fashion and style before she had noticed his cheeky grin. Padma Patil was standing next to him, regularly smiling sweetly at her sister Parvati, both wearing Indian saris with identical cuts, but different colors. Parvati was attending the dance with Lavender Brown, both witches apparently preferring that arrangement to the limited selection of pureblood dates left. Perish the thought that those two social climbers would date a half-blood like themselves, or ask a muggleborn!

Luna’s best friend Aicha was wearing an outfit that seemed to be taken straight out of ‘One Thousand and One Nights’. Or a harem in the Magical Ottoman Empire. From what Hermione had been able to tell after a brief check earlier, the shimmering clothes were made of air and magic, rather than illusions, and tied to the little genie hovering behind the dark-skinned witch. The clothes of her date, Blaise Zabini, paid homage to his Italian heritage and looked like they had roots on a design from Leonardo da Vinci. They looked almost conservative, compared to other robes. Hermione couldn’t help feeling jealous that all the immigrants from other countries could wear clothes showing off the culture of their origin country without anyone batting an eye, but she, as a true muggleborn, would cause a scandal should she wear something from muggle London, or Paris. She banished the thought. She would be enjoying this ball, not brood on things she could not change. Not yet.

Suddenly the great doors opened and the Champions made their entrance. As representative of Beauxbatons, Fleur was the first with her date, Cedric Diggory. Fleur simply looked radiant, dressed in what Hermione could only describe as ‘a bit of nothing’ that somehow still managed to remain on the right side of the line between daring and scandalous. Somehow she had managed to create an effect that gave the impression she was wearing almost nothing. But as soon as one focused on her one would see the still daring dress quite clearly. Hermione was dying to learn how she had managed that - Illusion? Compulsion? A variant of the Unplottable Charm, but inversed? - and was sure a number of the boys present would suffer from strained necks at the end of the ball. If not for the looks she had gotten earlier, she would have felt like an ugly duckling in Fleur’s presence. Cedric was wearing dashing robes, but next to Fleur and her clever spellwork, he made a plain impression, despite his obvious handsome looks. At least, Hermione noted, he was not ogling his date as much as he could.

Viktor was next, leading his date Cecile Lebert, a friend of Fleur’s from Beauxbatons. Both wore a matching ensemble that managed to combine both Bulgarian and French influences into something very attractive. Hermione had heard Cecile had done most of the designs herself, and was planning to work in that field after her graduation. From the way the robes flattered the two, flowing in subtle but graceful waves in response to their movements, Hermione was sure she would be successful.

Then came Harry, and Hermione’s smile widened while she was filled with pride. He was dressed in a variant of a duelist’s robe. It was made from dragon leather lined with enchanted silk, cut so the heavy material offered the best range of movement. Hermione was quite proud of having managed to enchant the silk lining in a way that made the leather more supple, despite the material’s known resistance to magic. Not many would pick those details up, she knew. Most would only notice the illusions flowing over the leather, showing celtic symbols and nordic runes of protection and battle. The rune for vengeance was prominently placed on his back, a challenge to the unknown assailant that had placed him in the tournament. Susan Bones was wearing a green dress robe that flattered her full bust while matching Harry’s duelling style and, as Hermione realized, the protective enchantments as well. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, she realized, Susan’s Head of Family was the Head of the DMLE, and would place a heavy emphasis on safety and protection, especially when her niece was the date of someone with an assassin after him.

The other guests applauded the Champions as they made their way towards Dumbledore, who was standing with his back to the altar placed in the centre of the hall. Hermione hadn’t seen the massive block of carved obsidian before, so it was probably something they only brought out for the Yule Ball. The three couples lined up right behind Dumbledore, who smiled at them before turning to the altar.

“Janus, as the year is ending, we call upon you to judge our past deeds, and bless us for the next year.” Dumbledore started the traditional Yule Ceremony. He raised his wand, and all present followed his example, everyone muttering a brief personal prayer about their wishes for the next year. A tension seemed to fill the Great Hall as wands reacted to their owners’ emotion and desires, sparks flying from some tips.

Then Dumbledore flicked his wand, and all lights went out in the Great Hall. Even the glow from some of the enchanted robes was dimmed until the guests were standing in total darkness. It was an eery experience for Hermione, bereft of her sight she felt as if she could sense the magic present, gathering around her and everyone else.

“Hecate, as the year ends, as the nights have grown long and the days have grown short, we ask of you to let our magic light the way for us, into the new year, to be our strength and guide. Lumos!” Dumbledore’s wand lit up with a light spell.

“Lumos!” Everyone else cast as well, and the Darkness gave way to the light from hundreds of wands. They remained like that, in silence, for a minute, until the regular lighting returned and the spells were canceled.

“Jupiter, we beg you to watch over us and ours, to protect us as you protect yours.” Dumbledore used a weak diffindo to cut his palm, letting his blood drip on the altar. 

Hermione should have been uneasy with the idea of cutting herself, but it just felt so right, so needed. She cut her own palm and did not notice any pain. Blood dripped from her hand, but vanished before it reached the floor, and she felt more magic gather around her, growing warmer. A tingling feeling ran through her, and the small cut in her hand vanished.

She stood there, taking deep breaths, still caught in the ritual. No one spoke until Dumbledore clapped his hands. “And with that, it’s time to open the ball! Champions, to the floor! Music!”

*****

Harry was mentally thanking both Hermione and Sirius for insisting that he had to take dancing lessons during the summer. He would be making a fool of himself, and his date otherwise, especially with the music provided by the Orchestra of Magical Vienna, the most famous magical musicians of Europe. To become a member of that formation one had to be better than the current member holding the spot one wanted, which was a tall order since it included the ghosts of the best musicians of the past as well. Hermione had remarked, after she had heard of and then researched the orchestra, that there would be a time when all members would be ghosts, at least temporary, given the size of the magical population to pick new members from. 

All Harry cared about right now was that they were as good as their reputation, no, better even. Listening to a magical musician giving a concert at the World Cup had been great, but dancing to an entire orchestra’s music was better. Much better. He felt as if he was part of the music, following the melodies wherever they led him. He thought he was more gliding than stepping, as if the dance floor was as smooth as perfectly polished glass, but he did not care, nor did he feel as if there was even the slightest possibility he could fall.

When the first dance ended he was waiting impatiently for the next dance to start. With the ball opened now, the other guests filled the floor. After another dance, he had grown used enough to the experience to both pay attention to other dancers and converse with his date. 

“I would ask if you are enjoying the dance, but I think your rapt expression until now already answered that.” Susan Bones smiled at him.

“I have to confess I was a bit overwhelmed by the experience, and I humbly beg your pardon for briefly not paying as much attention to you as your grace and beauty demands,” Harry answered, channelling Sirius a bit. The charming, not the lewd Sirius he knew. Susan giggled, and smiled, so he was doing well, he thought.

“You are forgiven.” 

They danced past Fleur and Cedric, and Harry spotted Hermione and Luna dancing nearby, the two young witches twirling around each other, as caught up in the music as he had been until now. He didn’t spot his other friends, but given the size of the crowd that was no surprise.

“Did my aunt threaten you should anything happen to me?” Susan sounded honestly curious.

“Not past the required formalities,” Harry answered.

Susan pouted a bit. “She must trust you a lot.”

“Or she trusts you a lot.”

The witch shook her head, her long dark-red hair obscuring her face for an instant before her magical coiffure restored itself. “She knows me better than that,” she claimed with an impish smile.

“Ah.” Harry wasn’t sure how to answer that, which made her giggle some more, until he joined her. The evening was turning out to be even better than he thought.

*****

About an hour later dinner started. Harry sat with the other Champions and their dates at the table of honour, where the altar had been before the dance. The elves had pulled out all the stops and Dumbledore had announced they were able to offer any food one might desire. So far Harry had not heard of anyone disproving the Headmaster’s claim. He was enjoying an entrecôte Café de Paris, ordered on Fleur’s recommendation, while they made small-talk about the music, the couples and the styles of the robes they had seen. Harry wasn’t paying that much attention to that, he was trying to keep an eye on Hermione and Luna’s table, in case someone, like Malfoy, was trying to cause trouble.

“It looks like a number of people were surprised by the appearance of ‘arry’s retainer.” Fleur’s comment made him pay attention though.

  
“Oh, yes,“ Susan answered. “Not many expected those kind of robes. She’s usually so … reserved. I guess it was her date’s influence?” She looked Harry, slightly cocking her head.

“Ah, yes,” Harry answered, truthfully. Though he wasn’t certain if it was entirely Luna’s … he couldn’t call it a fault, the dress did look very well on Hermione. His best friend was not one to follow anyone’s lead easily anyway, and would certainly not have worn such a robe if she didn’t want it. Which raised the question, he realized, why she would have wanted to wear such a dress.

“I assume ‘ermione will be more popular in two years than many would have thought yesterday,” Fleur added with a teasing tone. “I certainly would not mind if she was in her sixth year already, though my performance in the tournament might suffer from such a distraction.” 

“Ah.” Harry didn’t know how to answer that. His first thought - hands off, she’s my retainer! - didn’t seem to fit. Since the French witch was giggling, it was most likely a joke anyway. Even if Viktor nodded in agreement to the Veela’s words. Harry hoped the seeker was not having second thoughts about his stated intentions.

“Harry has been craning his neck, watching over her like a hawk.” Susan was getting in on the teasing.

“He’s just doing his duty as her Patron.” Cedric at least was not joining the fun, Harry noted. The Hufflepuff was not one of the most popular students in Hogwarts for no reason. “It was quite the surprise when it was announced that he had become her Patron, you know. Youngest Patron in history, and thanks to a life debt. The Boy-Who-Lived does not do things halfway.”

Harry quickly used the opportunity to steer the conversation away from Hermione and the Year of Discovery towards the life debt. It might feel like bragging, but it was better than talking about Hermione doing that sort of exploring.

*****

Pansy Parkinson was enjoying the Yule Ball very much. With so many important guests around it hadn’t taken much for her to keep Draco from making a scene - the boy was a fool, but he could dance, and his manners were impeccable if he cared to use them. They were seated at a table with Crabbe and Goyle, who Pansy knew were not about to converse during a meal, and a Ministry employee and her husband. The topic of conversation - rising prices for coffee - was dull, but safe, and Pansy could indulge in covertly watching other couples while chatting.

Greengrass was looking at Potter, or glaring at his date, it was hard to tell. The blonde witch’s date didn’t notice, he was busy staring down her décolleté. Pansy carefully took note of that, it would serve nicely in a verbal confrontation with her rival. The two Gryffindor gold diggers, Brown and Patil, apparently had recovered from the blow Granger had dealt them, foiling their plans for dates, and were already well on their way to breaking up two pureblood couples while not appearing to do so. Quite clever, for half-bloods. Weasley was showing more and better manners than expected. More class too. Pansy briefly wondered if she had been influenced by Draco’s rant about the redhead without noticing it, or if that was more of Granger’s influence. She briefly wondered what Draco would say if she became Weasley’s girlfriend. He was handsome, sufficiently rich to feel secure about himself - anyone would have to, to stay the best friend of Potter and his mudblood - and he was not in line to become head of his family. He loathed Slytherins, unfortunately, but if she managed to appear as a poor victim of Draco’s evil ways… It would have to be done perfectly, to fool Granger, of course.

The mudblood herself was acting as if she actually enjoyed her pity-date with Lovegood. She was a better actor than Pansy had given her credit so far. Unless she actually was enjoying the blonde’s company. That would mean anyone going husband hunting into Potter’s direction would not have to compete for his attention as much as expected. Or might be getting two partners for one. Unless of course this was just Granger trying to make some of those girls show their hand prematurely, so she could counter them. Usually such ploys didn’t happen until sixth or seventh year, but Granger was one to always prepare in advance.

Oh, yes, Pansy was enjoying the Yule Ball very much.

*****

Albus Dumbledore watched his students dance and smiled at the sight, even at the two 6th years wizards whose grace on the dance floor painfully reminded him of Gellert and himself, what felt like an eternity ago. He didn’t dare relax though, not with what he was certain was a follower of the Dark Lord just waiting for him to lower his guard to strike at all the innocents trusting in his protection. Alastor was patrolling outside the Great Hall. Rubeus was walking the grounds, he had insisted even though Albus had asked him to enjoy the ball with Madam Maxime. The half-giant had taken the incident at the first task personally, and was determined to make up for what he saw as his mistake, even though he had not been involved with caring for the fire drakes. Dozens of Aurors were present too, both openly and among the guests. With the wards of Hogwarts, and the hundreds of house elves and portraits watching, the ball should be safe. Should be. He had thought that of the first task as well, and had been proven wrong. He wouldn’t let that happen again.

*****

After an hour of dancing and two hours of dinner conversation, Hermione was still not certain if Luna was just very friendly or flirting with her. She considered simply asking several times, but had decided against it every time. Her friend just had such an innocent air around her, Hermione felt as if asking such a thing would somehow hurt the blonde witch. Not to mention that she would have to decide how she felt about that as well in that case. Luna was fun to be around though, no question about that, and a good if a bit too enthusiastic dancer.

That was a good thing as well - as long as they kept dancing, and in the middle of the floor, no one was likely to cut in and ask Hermione for a dance. She’d rather not dance with some of those she had spotted waiting in the wings, like Cormac McLaggen. That Gryffindor was one of those who seemed to think that he was Magic’s gift to witches, especially to half-bloods or muggleborns, whom he expected to properly reward him for spending time with them. She could of course refuse him, but since he looked slightly drunk as well, it would not just be a snub, but likely result in a scene, which would embarrass Harry. And herself.

The other wizards eyeing her were not much better, in her opinion. Her dress was too flimsy to protect against wandering hands - she had noticed the scarves moved out of the way of Luna’s hands, after they had finished the enchantments - and she’d rather not suffer a grabby dance partner. Luna was touchy-feely enough to put her on edge already. Though she had to admit that seeing Malfoy stare at her in surprise, and Pansy narrow her eyes, had felt satisfying.

Lost in her thoughts she had not realized they had drifted to the edge of the dance floor right when the current song started to end, and cursed herself for her inattentiveness. 

“May I cut in?” Harry was there. And looking at her. Hermione didn’t know how to react to that, but Luna already had agreed, and her Patron had taken her hand and started to dance before she had gathered her wits. It wasn’t exactly a faux-pas for a Patron to dance with his or her retainer, but generally it wasn’t done outside dance lessons, especially not at such an important ball. Someone who didn’t get to dance with him would feel snubbed. At the moment though, both relieved at having escaped McLaggen and happy to dance with Harry, Hermione didn’t care.

Unexpectedly the music changed to a slower song, and all around them the other dancers danced much closer their partners. After a brief hesitation, Harry gathered her in his arms. She could feel his surprise when the scarves of her robe moved out of his way and his hands touched her suddenly bare back, but she was already resting her head on his shoulder, and had her arms wrapped around his waist. 

She closed her eyes and for a song it seemed as if they were alone, just the two of them dancing together.

******* **


	7. The Second Task: Water

**Chapter 7: The Second Task: Water**

Harry Potter woke up later than usual the morning after the Yule Ball. Not surprisingly - the ball had lasted past midnight, and he had first brought Susan back to the house of the Bones family where her aunt had been waiting. Afterwards he had headed back home to Grimmauld Place so Luna could formally return Hermione to him. And then Sirius and even Remus had demanded to hear everything that had happened at the ball, and between his talk and Hermione’s report, he had been dead tired by the time he finally hit his bed. It hadn’t kept him from dreaming though. He held up his hand, and stared at it. After that close dancing with Hermione, with his hands on her bare back, his dreams had gotten even more vivid.

He sighed. He was her Patron, as Sirius reminded him often, and if he wanted… he closed his eyes. He’d never do that to her, never abuse his power. It was bad enough to know he could. That he even was allowed to. For all the protectiveness that the Patron Oath caused him to feel, that part seemed not to register as a threat to her.

Cursing the archaic magic having a hold on him, he got out of bed, cleaned himself with a few charms, and threw on a robe to head down to the kitchen for breakfast. Or lunch. Not that it mattered - soon after moving back into the house Sirius had made it clear that no matter the time of day, he and everyone else would be able to eat what they wanted. Hermione had as quickly mentioned a number of cultures around the world with quite different breakfast dishes than England, which had prompted Sirius to try as many of those dishes out as possible. He smiled - that had been a quite memorable month, and he still wasn’t sure how many of the dishes had been real ones, and how many the result of a prank from Remus, Sirius, or even Hermione.

“What does Master’s Godson want?” Kreacher asked, a tad haughtily, as soon as Harry entered the kitchen.

“Tea and scones.” Harry had long since decided not to react to the elf’s tone and instead interpret his sentences in the best possible way. He had not sat down yet at the massive table in the middle of the kitchen before his breakfast had appeared at his usual place, with an assortment of honeys and marmalades. For all his acerbic manners, Kreacher did excellent work when not abandoned with only an insane portrait to direct him. He summoned the Daily Prophet from the countertop and skimmed it. Lots of pictures from the ball, a few puff pieces on the Ministry and the Champions, including himself. No picture of him dancing with Hermione, though. No scandal either, it seemed, or Rita would have mentioned it in detail. At least if it involved adults - she knew better than to gossip about the dalliances of teenagers at Hogwarts, that was not a topic to write about in Wizarding Britain. Every rule had its exceptions though, so one never could assume too much.

Harry was halfway through his second scone and third cup of tea, magically kept in stasis until drunk, when Hermione joined him. His best friend looked still a bit sleepy, but she was already wearing one of her usual robes.

“What does Master’s Godson’s slave want?” The elf sounded even haughtier than usual. Hermione briefly glared at him before smiling widely, if a bit forcedly. “Tea and croissants, please, and orange juice.”

Her selection appeared across from Harry’s, cup and glass already filled. Kreacher had only once dared to have it appear on the ground in a bowl. Harry still didn’t know what Sirius and Hermione had said - or done - to him after that, but the elf had never dared to do something similar ever since, and had even treated Sirius with more respect afterwards. He had also informed Harry repeatedly that ‘the discipline chamber of the old Mistress was ready, should his Master’s Godson feel the need to use it’, but Harry had steadily ignored that.

“Slept well?” he asked once Hermione had had her first two cups of tea.

She nodded, smiling. “Like a log. That was a great ball. Even better than I hoped. The orchestra… the dancing… perfect!”

Harry nodded and finished his last scone. “At least one good thing came of the tournament then.” He saw the witch lose her smile, and wanted to hex himself. He hurriedly tried to fix his mistake. “Did you enjoy your date with Luna?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered, lifting her chin in answer to his teasing tone. “She was a perfect gentlewoman. And we had a very entertaining dinner conversation.” Harry could imagine that.

“Was everyone enjoying it?”

“I would think so.” Hermione shrugged in a manner that made it clear she didn’t really care what others might have thought. “How was dinner at the Champion’s table?”

“Like one of our evenings with them, just with their dates instead of you and Ron.”

“How quickly we are replaced!” Hermione sighed theatrically, and Harry was sorely tempted to throw a scone at her in response.

“Susan and Cedric were pleasant company. Not as pleasant as you, of course. Or Ron.” Harry added.

“How reassuring.” Hermione giggled at his frown. “I trust you behaved as a true gentleman?” Her tone was teasing, but there was some concern in her eyes.

“Of course. Her aunt is a scary witch.” That prompted more giggles from his best friend.

“And if she weren’t?”

“I’d still have behaved as a gentleman.”

That seemed to satisfy his best friend, though he didn’t know what exactly she had been worried about. They spent the rest of the meal talking about the ball, and their friends’ dates.

*****

“Aw, you are actually studying.” Hermione Granger, sitting in the Black Family library with Harry, looked up at Nymphadora Black-Tonks. The young witch was wearing her Auror robes, dyed a slightly paler red than those for Senior Aurors, but cut from the same material. Hermione knew from her research into clothing enchantments that all Auror robes had the same basic spells on them to provide the wearer with protection and mobility, but each Auror routinely placed personal spells on the robes as well.

“What else would we be doing in the library?” Harry sounded puzzled, but Hermione knew he was probably thinking of Sirius’s off-color jokes.

“Well… what could a young wizard and a young witch be doing, in private?” Nymphadora leered at them in such an exaggerated way, she had to be using her metamorphmagus ability, or so Hermione thought.

“Does Sirius know you’re using his lines?” Harry shot back, and Nymphadora’s frown in return caused Hermione to grin. Harry had been more curt, and more annoyed with Sirius’s lewd jokes recently, an attitude she approved of.

“My lines are much better than his outdated ones,” Nymphadora grumbled while walking over to the table Hermione and Harry were sitting at. “What are you reading? Muggle newspapers?”

“That’s a muggle magazine,” Hermione explained, wishing she had stashed the November issue before starting on the tome about water spells she had found.

“They have magazines about time?” Nymphadora was already browsing the contents. “What’s Star Trek?”

“A Science Fiction TV series from the USA.” Hermione launched into a brief - for her - but detailed explanation of Star Trek, television series, movies, science fiction, and Dr. Who. To her surprise and delight, Nymphadora didn’t look bored, but interested, and even a bit impressed. She still had not dropped the magazine, nor asked why the pictures were not moving. The only other wizard Hermione knew who was interested in her parents’ culture was Ron’s dad. And his patronizing attitude grated a bit on her nerves whenever she tried to explain something to him.

“Wow. I thought muggles liked football and bugs.”

“Bugs?” Hermione was lost for a moment, before she made the connection. “Do you mean the Beatles?”

“Yes, the beetles. Dad told me a muggleborn friend of his was all crazy about them. Weird right?”

“Those are musicians, not bugs.” Hermione changed the topic back to books and movies - muggle musicians, no matter how good, simply were not in the same class as magical musicians. At least not when it came to concerts. “But there are lots of books and movies, for every taste, actually.”

“I guess that comes with the territory, if you’ve got so many customers, right?”

“Exactly!”

“We should go see a movie.” Harry had been silent so far. Hermione had seen him smile at her enthusiastic explanations, but he had not commented.

“Great idea! Can we see Star Trek?” Nymphadora pointed at the magazine cover.

“It’s not out yet in Britain, only in the USA.” Hermione often cursed the release delays. It was not likely she’d be able to watch the movie in the cinema. “We can watch another movie, or we can watch a video at my parents’ house.” They were currently in the Alps, skiing, so she didn’t have to ask for permission to bring guests over.

“What’s a video?”

“A movie you can match at a muggle home on television.” Harry’s explanation was far too imprecise for Hermione’s taste, but it was far quicker too.

“The video it is then!”

Harry went to inform Sirius of their plans for the evening, at which point his godfather invited himself to come along, claiming someone responsible had to do the side-along apparition. That claim made Remus join them too.

It was a very entertaining movie evening, even if Hermione had to write a lengthy letter to her parents afterwards, to explain why they would have a new television, a new stove, and and a new VCR. At least the fridge had survived Sirius’s curiosity and Nymphadora’s clumsiness. And maybe her parents would not go skiing without her next winter. She knew she was being a bit unfair - they had already known before the term that she’d be going to the Yule Ball, and she had told them they should go ahead and enjoy their usual holiday to France, but it would have been nice if they had stayed anyway. Even if she would have felt guilty herself since she’d still spend most of her time with Harry, seeing as his life was in danger due to that tournament and he needed all the help he could get. ‘Hypocrisy thy name is Granger’, she thought.

*****

The Hogwarts Express after the Yule holidays was under much closer scrutiny than the one on September 1st. Neither the Ministry nor the school, and certainly not Harry Potter’s godfather were taking any chances with security. Aurors patrolled the cars openly, which rendered the Prefects’ patrols a bit redundant. Nymphadora was ‘undercover’, disguised as a Hufflepuff student of their year, and sitting with Harry and Hermione as a ‘last line of defense’, in her words. As she had told them at Sirius’s house, the Ministry even had spread the rumor that Harry would be traveling by floo back to Hogwarts. Hermione had thought that was actually a good idea, but Harry was glad he ‘would not let that cowardly saboteur force us to deviate from tradition’, as Sirius had put it. The train would forever hold a special place in his heart. Not only because he had met both Hermione and Ron on the train, but because it represented, even more than the Hogwarts letter, that he was a wizard.

Hermione and he had been busy over the holidays, that entertaining - if a bit expensive - movie night at the Grangers’ notwithstanding. He had been studying all sorts of water spells in preparation for the next task, while Hermione had upgraded the protective spells on his and her robes. She had also started to research some spells she thought would be useful in the next task, but she hadn’t gotten far yet. He glanced at her sitting next to him, her nose buried in notes she had taken in the Black Family Library. She’d not rest enough until she had finished, he knew. Harry felt a mixture of pride and guilt at that sort of loyalty and friendship, even if it was caused by magic. He didn’t deserve it, not that much, at least.

“Hello you two!” Ron’s arrival interrupted his brooding, as Hermione would have called it. While Harry and Hermione returned the greeting he noticed Nymphadora. “Ah, hello Miss.” He beamed at the disguised Auror, and for a moment Harry was tempted to claim she was what she appeared to be. Nymphadora would play along, he was sure. Hermione though would not.

“Ron, this is Nymphadora Black-Tonks, an undercover Auror and the daughter of Sirius’s cousin Andromeda. Nymphadora, this is Ron Weasley.”

“Wow, you look young.” Ron smiled and offered his hand to the witch, then gasped when he suddenly was looking at a witch older than Dumbledore. “Merlin’s ghost!”

Nymphadora giggled, which sounded very creepy coming from a crone, and changed back.

“A metamorphmagus!” Ron exclaimed. “How old are you actually?”

“Old enough to be an Auror.” Ron wrinkled his forehead for a moment, obviously calculating the age requirements. Nymphadora grinned, and went on. “I was in my 7th year when you three were firsties.”

“Ah. An older woman then.” Ron nodded sagely, while Nymphadora huffed.

The redhead was earlier than usual. He must have noticed Harry’s glance to his watch, since he explained: “Mum made Dad take the floo today, since she said there might be more checks at the gates and we might be actually late if we drove.”

“Did you have a good holiday?” Hermione looked up from her notes, but did not put them away.

“Dodged more pranks from the twins than not, I think. So, a good holiday.” Ron grinned, and heaved his trunk up to stash it instead of levitating it. Showing off his muscles, Harry thought, but Hermione didn’t seem to have noticed. His friend had barely sat down before his lap was filled with a half-kneazle demanding food. Harry grinned while Hermione muttered ‘traitor’ at her pet.

“What about you?” Ron asked, after feeding two treats to Crookshanks.

“We spent the holidays at Sirius’. He was immature enough to prank us at Yuletide, but we were prepared for that.” Hermione sniffed. “He should have known better.”

“What did he do, and what did you do to him in return?” Ron leaned forward eagerly. Harry knew he was always hoping to find something he could use against the twins back home.

Hermione sighed, making her view on pranks quite clear, though Harry had had the impression she had liked preparing a revenge prank for Sirius in advance. Liked it very much. Not that he would have voiced that belief.

Nymphadora was already telling the tale, despite, or because, of Hermione’s frown. “He put a spell on a retainer’s collar, turned it into a dog collar with a leash.” Ron chuckled briefly until the victim of the prank glared at him.

“We turned his gift into a muzzle and a pink straitjacket, with ‘Mad Dog’ written on the back.” Hermione smiled proudly.

“What’s a straitjacket?”

Hermione explained the garment to Ron while Harry hoped they’d change the topic soon, before Ron asked why Sirius hadn’t pranked Harry harder.

*****

Hermione Granger had returned to studying her notes while Harry, Ron and Nymphadora chatted about Quidditch. She needed every bit of time to finish the spell she wanted to create in time for Harry to learn it. If it worked he’d have a big advantage in the second task.

A bit after the train had left London Susan Bones visited their compartment. Since the door was locked with a number of spells, Nymphadora had enough time to change her robe’s badge to that of Ravenclaw. The red-haired witch was in a good mood, though she did look at Nymphadora for a bit longer than expected when she presented herself as ‘Deborah Bailey, 6th year Ravenclaw’. Was that some jealousy there? Hermione wondered silently. She hoped not, even though the Hufflepuff sat down a bit close to Harry. She felt slightly uneasy at that sight herself, but didn’t know why. Susan was a nice girl, and seemed to like Harry.

“Did you know you snubbed me to dance with your retainer?” Susan grinned.

“What?” Harry sounded as surprised as Hermione was at the accusation, in jest or not. She was sure Harry would not have made such a faux-pas. It had been daring enough to dance with her. Daring, but nice. “I asked for your permission!” Harry sounded indignant.

Susan giggled. “Yes, you did. But someone’s spreading the rumor that I left in a huff at that insult.” Hermione didn’t feel like laughing. Such rumors could harm Harry’s reputation, and her own, if left unchecked. “Don’t worry, I made it clear there was no snub.” She leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. “I haven’t found out who started that rumor, but I will.”

“I am sure it was Malfoy through Parkinson.” Harry growled. “I wondered why he was not doing anything at the ball.”

“Ah… it could have been Patil and Brown too.” Ron had the attention of the entire compartment. Even Nymphadora’s, who should be more concerned with attacks by the still unknown assassin, Hermione thought. “I think they blame Hermione for not getting the dates they wanted. And… I might have tweaked their noses a bit about going with Padma instead of Parvati.” He smiled apologetically at Harry and Hermione. “I’m sorry.”

Great. If she had helped those two, she’d not have to deal with yet another rumor. But the thought of helping those two, after their needling remarks, had not sit well with Hermione.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find out. All of Hufflepuff will be helping. They were quite proud that two champions picked a Hufflepuff for a date.” Susan beamed at Harry. Hermione thought that was not much to be proud of. She would have hated to be known as the best date instead of the best witch. Susan, as the niece and heir of Amelia Bones, Head of the DMLE, should know better! “And when we find out, they’ll pay.” Susan’s grin was now more feral than amused. Hermione reminded herself not to underestimate the witch. Not that she was planning to get into a conflict with the redhead. Unless Susan would hurt Harry. Should that happen not even the entire House of Hufflepuff would be able to protect her!

*****

Harry Potter stole a few glances at Hermione. She had been behaving a bit odd since Susan had visited. Maybe the rumors hurt her more than he had thought? He resolved to find out. In private, of course. No one hurt his retainer!

A knock at the door had Nymphadora draw her wand and everyone else tense up at least. He noticed Hermione had hers behind her notes, and smiled. “Yes?”

“It’s me, Luna, and Aicha is with me. Can we come inside?”

Harry looked at Nymphadora, who cast a few quick spells at the door, then changed her badge back to Hufflepuff and nodded at him. He undid the locking spell and opened the door with his wand. The blonde witch, wearing what looked like a roman-style short tunic, and Aicha, wearing her customary arabian-looking outfit, entered, trailed by Aicha’s genie-kin.

“Hello everyone. Oh, you’re new. Or are you?” Luna cocked her head sideways, staring at Nymphadora.

“Deborah Bailey, Hufflepuff 6th year.”

“If you say so.” Luna all but dismissed her and sat down next to Hermione and pulled her legs up on her seat as well while Aicha sat down more demurely across from her. “I have to thank your retainer once again, Harry. It was a lovely evening.” Before Harry could answer, she turned to Hermione and hugged the surprised witch. “Thank you for a lovely evening! Our robes were perfect thanks to your spells! We’ll have to create more like them, but suited for the warmer weather of summer this time!”

Harry didn’t know exactly how to take that - their robes had had as much fabric as a bathing suit, not counting the cape, in his opinion. Hermione seemed lost as well, which probably explained why she did not protest when Luna twisted around and placed her head on the other witch’s lap while propping her feet up next to the door. Hermione made a surprised noise while Ron snickered. Aicha seemed unfazed, but that was to be expected - she had been Luna’s best friend since their first year, and was well-used to the quirky blonde’s behaviour.

Luna asked about their holidays, and fortunately - for Ron, given Hermione’s glare at him - no one mentioned Sirius’s prank while they exchanged news. Luna and Aicha had spent most of the holidays visiting each other, it seemed, split between ‘hunting ice genies’ and animating snow-creatures to reenact the last Goblin Rebellion. Hermione looked quite flustered since the blonde witch didn’t show any indication of wanting to move her head out of his retainer’s lap, even when she was gesturing animatedly while telling them about the climax of the battle, accidentally entangling her hand in Hermione’s hair and pulling her head down towards her own.

“Oh, we almost kissed!” was her own comment while Hermione was busy recasting her hairstyling charms. To Harry’s amusement, the comment almost caused his best friend to miscast her charm, something she hadn’t done since their first year. Though he couldn’t help thinking that Luna should have left Hermione’s lap now.

*****

Ron had enjoyed watching Luna confuse Hermione until the two Ravenclaws had left for their own compartment again. His friend was in need of some loosening up, he thought, or 6th year would be difficult for her. The blonde witch had certainly grown up in the last year. Like Ginny, his traitorous brain added, and he frowned. He would have preferred if Ginny had joined them in this compartment, but as usual she had wanted to sit with her friends. Unlike every time they boarded the train she had added that she might join Neville in his compartment. Ron had smiled at that, if a bit forced. If he had said a single word against that she’d have done it just to spite him.

Ron had enjoyed the Yule Ball, but he wasn’t sure if Padma had really liked his company as much as she had claimed, or if that had just been born from the desire to one-up her sister. He certainly understood such a desire. In any case he would be lying if he said he had not liked the attention.

Speak of the inquisitor, and he appears, he thought, when he heard Padma - he thought it was Padma’s voice - ask if she could come in. The Indian witch was let in after Nymphadora cleared her and sat down next to Hermione, greeting everyone. She didn’t seem to question Nymphadora’s cover, and smiled at himself. He liked that. Then he noticed that the rest of the compartment was looking at him, and he realised they were expecting him to ask Padma about the rumors. He was expected to gossip!

“How were your holidays, Padma?” It was not the best opening, but it got her talking about her family.

“They were great. Parvati was usually off with Lavender, and so I had some peace. It’s hard to read if you’re interrupted all the time because she wants a “third opinion” on something - which she doesn’t, she simply wants to needle me. She is still steaming about the Yule Ball, by the way, going with Lavender didn’t work out as well as she thought. They broke up a couple, but didn’t manage to snag either of them.” For a witch who said she was glad her sister left her in peace, she certainly knew a lot about her sister’s actions.

“Ah, rumors. Did you know some people say Harry snubbed Miss Bones at the ball? Even though she herself said it wasn’t true?” Judging by the way Padma’s eyes lit up, he thought she shared at least one passion of her sister as well.

“Oh, Parvati said she had seen Miss Bones storm off on a huff, after Mister Potter started to dance with Miss Granger. I am sure it was an honest mistake.” Her smile belied her words, of course. And he had thought he knew what sibling rivalry was.

The expressions on his friend’s faces didn’t bode well for Parvati, and by extension, Lavender’s near future. Ron himself was more concerned that even after Padma’s visit he didn’t know what she really thought about him. But he certainly did know that he did not wish to have her angry at him.

*****

The first days back at Hogwarts saw rumors spread like wildfire, overtaking each other. Harry snubbing Susan, Susan leaving in a huff and setting her aunt on Harry, Hermione snubbing Susan… Harry Potter barely could track them all, though it didn’t help that no one wished to tell them to his face.

“Mister Potter? What is this I hear about an incident at the Yule Ball that left your date in tears? Surely that is just a rumor.” No one but Malfoy, apparently.

“Of course it is just a baseless rumor, Mister Malfoy. Miss Bones was not slighted, nor feels any ill will towards me.”

“Of course. Only a fool would assume you’d be so crass as to publicly embarrass the heir of the Bones family to dally with a mere retainer so much below you. You are a wizard of honour, after all.” Malfoy smiled graciously. It seemed he was getting better with his insults. Or lucky. Hermione’s face remained expressionless, but Harry knew she was vexed by the Slytherin’s comment. Before he could retaliate though Malfoy nodded at him and left again.

This time it was Harry who placed his hand placatingly on Hermione’s thigh. Not that he thought she’d have to be kept from hexing the git. But he wanted to comfort her.

*****

Hours after Malfoy had insulted her Hermione Granger was still fuming. That blond bigot personified most of what was wrong with Wizarding Britain. The arrogance built on nothing more than having been born into a rich pureblood family, the bigotry, the maliciousness hidden under a thin veneer of manners… she forced herself to calm down. She needed to finish her spell for Harry, she couldn’t afford to waste time with angry thoughts about that idiot.

She returned her attention to the books in front of her, and her notes, glaring at the abacus. If only she had managed to get a calculator working over the holidays, but… she was getting closer, she knew, but it took so much time and effort. Neither she could spare a lot right now, with the next task, the next danger, looming so close.

“Are you creating a new spell?” Luna’s voice startled her and broke her concentration right when she had managed to immerse herself in her work again. She hadn’t noticed the blonde witch arriving at her table, but with the library’s enchantments muffling noise and other sounds, that was no surprise.

“Luna!”

“Hermione!”

Hermione had to laugh a bit at the blonde, despite herself. Her table had already expanded to accommodate the Ravenclaw, and a new chair had appeared. Sighing, she resigned herself to losing more time. “Yes, I am. I hope it’ll be useful to Harry in the next task.” If it all worked as she planned, it would be very useful.

Luna peered at her notes, then looked up at her. “Just be careful. Spellcrafting is dangerous.”

“It’s safe. This is just a variant of an existing spell.” Hermione had it under control. She wasn’t about to try anything dangerous, after all.

Luna shook her head, looking more serious than Hermione had ever seen her. “It’s never truly safe. I should know; my mother was a spellcrafter until she died when a new spell reacted in an unexpected manner.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. She tried anyway “Luna, I…”

Luna grasped her hand, and stopped her. “Magic is not that predictable. Promise me you’ll be careful, Hermione!”

The blonde witch sounded so earnest, so caring, Hermione could only nod. She hadn’t known about Luna’s mother, but in hindsight, she should have at least suspected something. Luna had only ever talked about her father, never her mother, when they had been shopping, or enchanting the robes, and at the ball. “I promise.”

Luna smiled, though Hermione couldn’t tell if it was with relief or satisfaction. “Good. By the way, why didn’t you tell me Harry and Susan had come to an agreement about sharing you?”

“What?”

Hermione’s plans for the evening were delayed further while Luna filled her in about the latest rumor. Apparently Susan Bones assurances that Harry had acted with her full approval at the ball had been slightly misinterpreted.

*****

Albus Dumbledore was in his office, listening to Alastor’s report on the security measures taken for the second task. It did look like the old Auror had planned for every eventuality, but then, they had thought that had been the case for the first task as well. He couldn’t think of anything they had missed either though.

“Very good, Alastor. This task should pass without trouble then.”

“I’ll believe it when it’s over, and the culprit in custody or dead,” The gruff Auror answered, his eye spinning as usual, with Fawkes peering at it with open curiosity despite the number of times the phoenix had seen it.

“How goes the investigation into the attack on the Quidditch World Cup?” Alastor was not an active Auror anymore, but he still knew everyone of importance at the department, and, as he put it, “a few even like me still, enough to talk.”

“They managed to identify one of the attackers through the residue of a curse he was hit with at the Cup. Marcus Brownstem. One of the hanger-ons in the first Blood War, too young to implicate himself, and smart enough to play nice afterwards. He was interrogated extensively, but he doesn’t recall who contacted him, nor does he know who had the idea for the attack. Whoever orchestrated the attack was smart - he only remembers meeting ‘fellow wizards wearing masks’.”

Albus was disappointed, but not surprised. He had hoped to get at least a hint of who was behind this, but whoever it was, had planned this well.

“Too many suspects with the means and brains to organize this.” Apparently, Alastor had picked up on his reaction.

“I fear you are correct, old friend. The whole incident doesn’t make much sense. Those we suspect of being involved have so much to lose should they get caught, why would they risk that? Why now?” Albus and Alastor knew one possible explanation, but to voice that without proof would invite scorn, and worse, from those who did not share their experiences.

“How are things in the Wizengamot?”

“Better than expected. Cornelius is holding up well, despite the pressure from France and Eastern Europe.” But the Minister would blame anything that went wrong on him, Albus knew that. It was not that much of a concern, as long as he could prevent a catastrophe. If the tournament finished without a serious incident, his standing might even benefit - and Cornelius would then try to claim credit for that as well. Judging by Alastor’s snort, his thoughts paralleled his own.

“In other words, dirty business as usual.” Alastor nodded to him and Fawkes, and stood up. “I’ll check the perimeter once again. We’ll have to pick a site to house the animals for the second task soon.” The retired Auror left, and Albus found himself alone with his thoughts, and a phoenix, in his office.

*****

In the middle of January, two weeks before the second task, Hermione Granger was preparing their training room for another evening with Fleur and Viktor. She was looking forward to it - she would not have to play the servant in private with them, and she hoped to be able to find out what spell Fleur had used on her robes at the Yule Ball. Ron of course was looking forward to more talking to Viktor, and maybe Fleur. Though Hermione had the impression that with Padma showing obvious interest in Ron, her friend was likely to avoid even giving the hint of trying to court Fleur, no matter how unlikely him wooing a Veela three years his senior was to begin with. The possible relationship between Ron and Padma irked Parvati and Lavender to no end, as she and Fay knew very well from the overheard complaints in their dorm. Between arranging the furniture and checking the snacks, Hermione looked her friends over. Both seemed more relaxed, less nervous than before. Good. She hated to see either one fret. The young witch adjusted the floating trays a bit, to line them up better, and cast another cleaning charm on the chairs and table. Almost perfect. Maybe she should dim the light a bit?

She was still tinkering with the arrangement when a knock on the door announced that their guests had arrived. Running a last cleaning charm over her own robes - and ignoring Harry and Ron snickering at her - she walked to the door and opened it.

She still went through the expected formalities since they were, technically, in public as long as the door was open. “My Patron bids you welcome, Mister Krum, Miss Delacour, and offers his hospitality for the duration of your visit.” The two accepted the hospitality as formally, but Fleur had a teasing smile on her face.

Once the door closed behind them, everyone relaxed visibly, and even Viktor slouched a bit in his seat while the snack trays circled around. Fleur positively lounged on the couch with an air of casual but sophisticated elegance Hermione felt a stab of envy for.

They chatted about the Yule Ball, and the rumors it had generated. Both Fleur and Viktor were very familiar with rumors, and according to them, the newspapers of their own countries showed far less restraint when it came to rumors about students than the British publications did. Some of the more outrageous rumors were quite entertaining though, at least those that did not involve herself. The one speculating about her, Harry, Ron, Luna, Susan and Padma… honestly, did those reporters know nothing about Hogwarts? Hermione didn’t want to think about the mental picture that generated. It was bad enough that she had had dreams of dancing with Harry and Luna making comments as if she was observing them in the bedroom.

She did use the opportunity to ask Fleur about the spell on the Veela’s ball robes, but apparently it was a family secret, or so the French witch claimed. Hermione managed to ferret out enough hints though that she would be able to attempt to reverse engineer it, or a reasonable facsimile.

“Were you planning to use the spell yourself, ‘ermione?” Fleur asked with a wide smile. Hermione stiffened. She did not really plan to use that spell. It was just an intellectual challenge. Mostly.

“No, no. I was just curious. It looked like a very interesting blend of different spell effects.” She sipped from her glass to hide any involuntary reaction, and wished she had dimmed the lights some more.

“You made quite the impression at the Ball, my dear. If I ‘ad not given my word already, I’d be tempted to keep you after my victory.” Fleur was smiling, and obviously jesting, but Hermione froze. This was not something she wanted to joke about. It cut too deep. Fleur must have realised, since she apologized right away, and changed the topic to Quidditch. Hermione felt Harry’s hand on her back, and smiled gratefully at him.

The rest of the evening passed without other sensitive topics being touched. Fleur and Viktor didn’t invite them to visit over summer, but Hermione expected that would come after the next invitation, or the one after that. Custom demanded that hospitality was returned, after all, and she was looking forward to seeing magical France and Bulgaria. Not that Harry had known that when he had proposed such evenings.

*****

The next training session with Sirius and Remus - focused on water-based spells, of course - had Harry Potter panting with exhaustion after two hours spent swimming and diving and casting in a transfigured pool. With the second task so close, his godfather and his Defense teacher had increased the intensity of the training. Hermione was not there. His friend had said that she really had to finish the modifications to the bubble-head charm. Harry was not sure if he should be worried for her - she was overdoing it again, he knew - or relieved he would not be distracted by a pretty witch in a robe transfigured into a skin-tight suit. Ron was there though, and his friend was looking as tired as Harry felt. Sirius and Remus on the other hand were looking fresh. No surprise there - they had not been in the pool.

“Come on, kids. It’s only been two hours. We’ve got another hour left until you can rest.” Sirius stood there, hands on his hips. Before Remus could chime in as well, the spell on the door announced a visitor.

It wasn’t Hermione, as Harry had thought, it was Nymphadora. The Auror was in her usual red robes. “Hi everyone. Are you torturing the children as we planned? I don’t see any weights on their feet.”

“We’re saving them for the next lesson,” Sirius answered while Remus nodded at the witch. Harry was too tired to say more than “Hi Nymphadora.”

“Good, good. Take some pictures then, for next Yuletide.” The three adults laughed at that while the two teenagers groaned in protest. “More seriously, though”, a quick hex from the Auror shut Sirius up before he could utter his usual pun, “we think we discovered how the next task was to be sabotaged.”

Suddenly Harry didn’t feel tired anymore. “What? What did you find?”

“It was Hagrid, actually. He checked the animals delivered for the next task, and found out a number of them were infected with poisonous parasites from Magical Australia. Everything is poisonous down there, you know, even the plants want to kill you. And that’s just the muggle parts. The magical parts are worse. Don’t ask me the name of the beasts, I forgot, but if you had wounded any of the infected animals, they would have poisoned the water and spread.”

Harry winced at that. Poison was bad enough, but to be infected with parasites… he shuddered.

“What are you doing about it?” Sirius asked, now as serious as Remus.

“We’re keeping them and acting as if we did not notice anything. We’ll swap them right before the task, so the one behind this will think it’s working and won’t try something else.” Harry noticed that she was chewing something, but he hadn’t seen her eat anything before.

“Good idea.” Remus said approvingly. Harry agreed - it was a sound plan.

“What are you eating? Can I have some?” With the important matters settled, Ron was apparently focusing on something more practical. “Swimming makes me hungry.”

“It’s chewing gum, not food,” the metamorphmagus answered, sticking out her tongue to show what she meant. Harry blinked. He was pretty certain, and the confusion of the other three wizards present confirmed it, that chewing gum was not something Wizards were familiar with. “A muggle thing. You chew it, you don’t eat it.”

“Why would you do that? That sounds barmy!” Ron answered.

“It’s like a chewing toy.” Harry could not resist. “You know, for dogs. You should try some.” When the dog animagus, the werewolf and the witch currently chewing gum glared at him, he knew he should have held his tongue.

The next hour was even worse than the two before combined. For him at least - Ron was mostly collateral damage.

*****

The arena had been completely rearranged again, Hermione Granger noticed. In its centre stood a massive cube of water, filled with coral reefs, what looked like kelp fields, and even caves. She couldn’t spot any walls outside the water, so it was likely just held together with magic. Given that it was also expanded on the inside, she noticed the telltales of those charms, there was enough water there that, should those spells fail, it would flatten the arena and everyone inside.

In what looked like a transpositioned piece of the sea, various fishes swam around. She could spot other creatures lurking in the shadows and the kelp fields and caves must be hiding even more. She would have missed them entirely, if not for the enchantments that allowed the spectators to closely observe the entire event, no matter how far the champions swam. In the centre of the water rested a giant clam, and on it sat a blue-skinned female figure wearing floating, silken clothes - a marid, Hermione realised, a water genie. In that moment, the clam started to open and revealed two fist-sized pearls - one golden, one silver colored one. The bonus tokens, as Hermione mentally called them. Getting one would give 10 respectively 5 additional points. There was no bronze pearl, so a pearl was not needed to use the portal next to the clam that would take the Champion out of the arena, done with the task.

The young witch wished she was with Luna and Aicha, and not sitting, as during the first task, with a broom and a necklace next to the judges. She had read up on marids, but not enough in her opinion. She didn’t know how the tournament organizers had managed to persuade such a powerful genie to take part in the task, but she knew they were known to command magic wizards could not, and were said to twist wishes and offer poisonous deals to the foolhardy.

She glanced to the small platform where Harry was already standing next to Fleur and Viktor, facing the immense wall of water. Hermione hoped that Harry would stick to the plan, and wouldn’t try something foolhardy. It was dangerous enough to get to the exit. She saw a small shark cut through the water and dug her nails into her thighs to avoid making a scene in public.

*****

Pansy Parkinson was wishing she was sitting somewhere else as well, rather than next to Draco. Her boyfriend was trying to lord it over their fellow Slytherins again, trying to free the seats to either side of them just so he’d stand out a bit more. He still had not realised, or so she thought, that the students did not respect him, but feared his father. Though he had become a bit more subtle in mentioning his family. It was as if he did not care as much about how others saw him as he had cared before. She didn’t know why, and that worried her. She liked her toys predictable. Easy to control and use.

Draco still was vain, proud and arrogant, but he had started to handle setbacks with more grace. Losing to Potter in a bout of verbal sparring wasn’t grounds to moping around for a day anymore. He was acting as if he had something up his sleeve, something that would turn the tables on Potter, but he wasn’t bragging to her about it as he used to about his past plots.

And she couldn’t ask him easily about it, not without endangering her own image of a silly doting girlfriend. And it was not yet time for that particular twist. But it galled to not know everything about Draco. She didn’t like it at all.

Her face betrayed nothing of her thoughts though. She smiled widely, her hand on Draco’s arm, and pointed out the different couples that had formed after the Yule ball in the excited manner of Daphne Greengrass, just with a tad more decorum. As expected, Draco soon looked as if he wanted to be anywhere else. It was a small victory, but she enjoyed it anyway.

*****

Harry Potter was studying the arena in front of him. Thanks to massive expansion charms it was a vast underwater area, divided by coral reefs and kelp fields. He spotted what looked like a miniature underwater volcano, another hazard. From what he could tell the open water above the reefs and kelp fields was actually a chaotic maelstrom formed of different currents, only made possible by magic, for water would not naturally behave so.

It was clearly designed to lure the unwary or foolish in, then throw them around before spitting them back out, all their time wasted. And yet, if one could reach the centre of it, the way down to the goal would be clear. If one could. He didn’t see a way, not even with Hermione’s spell. The currents looked simply too strong to navigate. He and the other champions would have to swim through a maze of coral reefs and underwater canyons, or brave kelp fields which could be hiding anything - or pose a danger themselves. And they would have to deal with sharks, squids, probably saltwater grindylows and similar pests as well as water elementals.

Harry was prepared for that though. Or rather, prepared to cheat a little. To break the spirit of the rules at least, if not the letter. He patted the pouch where his emergency portkey was resting, strapped to his thigh, and glanced at Fleur and Viktor. Fleur would be at a disadvantage, he knew, due to her heritage, but he didn’t know how big a factor that would be. She looked confident though. Viktor was harder to read, he looked stoic as usual. Neither had revealed their plans during the evening spent together, nor had Harry let anything slip. Smirking with more confidence than he felt, he nodded at both. They returned the gesture, and then the signal to start was given.

Viktor dove right into the wall of water while Fleur and Harry transfigured their competition robes into skin-tight suits - no one wanted to go swimming in robes, especially in a race, which meant Viktor was probably transfiguring himself. Fleur cast a bubble-head charm and slid into the water while Harry cast his own charm, grateful that his suit covered him from neck to toe - having his whole body surrounded by bubbles of air would be a distracting experience - and then jumped at the water wall himself.

To his relief the spell worked as expected. They had tested it, but not against enchantments holding water back, and as Hermione had said, spells could be very unpredictable when interacting with other magical effects. Instead of water he felt air around him. He wouldn’t have to worry about the coldness of water, for one, nor about breathing. But more important was the other effect, the reason Hermione had modified the bubble-head charm. Supercavitation, she had called it.

It wasn’t as if he flew through the water, but coupled with a slightly overpowered aguamenti charm as propulsion he could travel far faster than swimming. It took a bit of work to steer using his wand, but he had managed to get a few hours of training in, last night, and he soon dove into one of the underwater canyons to avoid the maelstrom, leaving Fleur behind and quickly catching up to Viktor. The Bulgarian had apparently transfigured himself into a shark, at least partially. Harry was reminded of McGonagall’s warning tales of self-transfiguration gone wrong when he passed the wizard.

He was leading now, which usually would mean he’d be slowed down by whatever obstacle he’d run into first, allowing the others to catch up and maybe pass him again. Harry had no intention of slowing down though - he was a seeker, not a beater. He barely saw a school of grindylows ascend from the kelp field below before he was already past them. He couldn’t ascend too much though, or he’d be sucked into the maelstrom and transported who know where, so he stuck quite close to the ground.

A man-sized shark turned towards him, but then decided he was too fast, and didn’t pursue. As dangerous as it was, Harry couldn’t help but starting to enjoy the trip. It was almost as good as flying on his Firebolt. Acting on impulse he rolled and let out a whoop and dove through an opening in a coral reef, skimming the ground. Their plan was working perfectly!

He was about to ascend a bit more, to avoid getting too close to a kelp field, when he suddenly saw a struggling figure in the middle of it. How could Fleur have gotten ahead of him? He moved closer and realised it was not Fleur, but Hermione! He didn’t know why she was here, probably a result of more sabotage, but he’d save her. Without a thought he dove at her, then brought his wand up. A few cutting curses freed his retainer, and he took her into his arms. Her torn clothes fell off her, and he felt her hug him in return. He smiled then realised she needed a bubble-head charm as well. Before he could cast it though her grip on him tightened and she kissed him. Like in a dream.

He closed his eyes returned the kiss and felt her tongue slip inside. Her kiss tasted salty, like seaweed. Seaweed? His eyes flew open and he realised he was wrapped up in kelp, and being dragged towards the ground. He started to struggle, but barely could move his wand, and the plant’s grip tightened, driving more air out of his lungs. Even with the bubble-head charm he’d have trouble breathing much longer. The temptation was there to give up, to trigger his portkey, but that piece of seaweed had used Hermione against him! Filled with fury he started to blindly send out cutting curses, until he felt the grass wrapped around himself give some, and then started to aim his curses. A few minutes later he was rising from the ground, through a cloud of cut and ripped plants. He longed to destroy the trap completely, but held back - he had to reach the centre, not waste even more time. Casting aguamenti again, he continued on, a fair bit more cautiously than before.

By his estimation he still was in first place, with a sizeable lead. Or so he hoped. He did give the kelp field a far wider berth and stuck closer to the coral reef on the side when he had to pass another one. A few squids tried to make a grab at him, but he easily avoided and left them to attack his competitors. Another reef loomed ahead. Any other time he’d have marveled at the colors and structures, but not now. Just as he was passing that as well, a sudden blow out of nowhere slammed him into the reef. The impact robbed him of his breath, and he skipped over the corals, his suit and skin sliced open from the shells.

Where had that come from? He couldn’t see anything, or anyone. Another blow caught him from behind, then the next batted him back towards the reef, and more cuts joined the ones he already had suffered. His chest felt like a few ribs were cracked as well. He finally spotted a faint outline in the water, moving as if invisible - a water elemental! Cursing, he moved a bit away. He needed his wand to move quickly, but if he used it to move he could not strike at the elemental.

He winced in anticipation, and readied his wand. When the elemental moved to strike at him again, he hit it with a modified cooking charm while he got hammered into the chest again. Battered, he started to flee, using aguamenti again, pursued by the elemental. They played a game of seeker and snitch for a few minutes until the charm had finally managed to turn most of the creature’s body into steam. Battered and bruised, Harry continued towards the centre, and the clam.

Shortly afterwards a school of smaller sharks, about the size of a shepherd dog, came right at him, apparently attracted by his blood. Again he had the choice of either fighting them, healing himself, or moving on and hoping to lose them. Wounded as he was, he chose to press on, and dove to the ground to get around them. He dodged the one coming closest to him, and soon was shooting through the water, pursued by the sharks.

He raced past another reef, into another canyon, under what looked like a shipwreck, and circled around the volcano, but the sharks did not give up. Either charmed, or some magical variant that was more stubborn than a mule. He didn’t care right then. But he couldn’t face the marid with a pack of bloodthirsty predators nipping at him. Turning around, he cast a bombarda at the leading shark. The spell turned the animal into bite-sized chunks of meat, and spread blood all over the other sharks, which seemed to be dazed by the explosion for a moment.

Good enough, he decided, and he turned away and shot towards the clam, where the marid, a beautiful, blue-skinned woman with long, pointed ears and turquoise hair was waiting. She made no move to intercept him, but kept sitting on the clam.

“Greetings, Champion. I am the guardian of the pearls. I will test your mettle, wit and power.” Her voice had an odd timbre and he could hear her perfectly despite the water.

“I am Harry Potter, Champion of Hogwarts.” He flipped her a salute and dove past her, straight for the portal. He had to grin at the surprised expression on the marid’s face right before he was transported out of the arena.

*****

Hermione Granger had been close to weeping with frustration and fear several times during the task, especially when Harry was being battered around by a water elemental, or when he suddenly dove right into a field of strangling kelp. By the time Harry was leading a school of sharks on a desperate chase she was pressing a fist to her mouth so she’d not scream. When her best friend shot past the genie to the exit, she sagged in her chair with relief.

“Why did he not engage the marid for the pearls?” the young witch heard Karkaroff ask Dumbledore. She could have told them that it would have taken Harry too long, and carried a too big risk. He’d gain more points, relatively, if he simply saved as much of his lead by finishing as fast as possible. She didn’t though. She was too angry still at the traps and obstacles Harry had had to deal with to explain his tactics to anyone.

He had won, and both of the other champions were still far from the centre. Too far to overtake him in points even with the pearls, Hermione noticed. She didn’t care at the moment. All she cared about was Harry. He had survived. He was alive.

*****


	8. The Third Task: Air

**Chapter 8: The Third Task: Air**

While the audience roared and applauded at his exit, Harry Potter was moved to the healer’s area and checked by a wizard. His cuts, bruises and broken ribs were quickly fixed. He didn’t bother fixing his transfigured robe. Instead he discarded it, vanished it, and slipped his school robes on. The familiar feeling of the numerous enchantments wrapping around him, adjusting the temperature, the robe lifting a bit to float above his skin, and the knowledge that he was now much better protected again, was a great relief. As much as spotting Hermione safe and sound near the judges was. Remembering the illusion of her struggling, drowning, still made him shudder.

When he returned to the spot where he would be waiting for the others to arrive, Viktor had yet to reach the centre. The Bulgarian champion had been forced to revert his transfiguration to deal with what looked like a small plesiosaurus, and judging by the blood leaking from his wounds, he’d be attracting sharks soon. Fleur was decimating grindylows with area-effect spells above a kelp field. Harry checked his watch - he had a mechanical wristwatch, but Sirius had told him repeatedly that he’d get a ‘real watch’ for his 17th birthday, like every wizard - and was pleased to find that even if Viktor managed to reach the clam right away and get the golden pearl, he’d still get less points than Harry.

Five minutes and an encounter with a familiar-looking school of bloodthirsty sharks later, Viktor was facing the marid. They talked for several minutes, with the genie’s smile widening and Viktor scowling, but Harry didn’t hear what they were talking about. Finally, the genie nodded and with a flash, the golden pearl appeared in her hand. She offered it to Viktor, who snatched it up and dove to the exit, followed by what looked like booming laughter. The star seeker arrived next to Harry, grinning wrily at his dry and robed appearance. Both exchanged brief nods before the Bulgarian was moved to the healers. Fleur arrived a few minutes later, and skipped the marid, going straight for the exit. Judging by the snarl on the genie’s face, that seemed to have been a wise decision.

Finally the points were awarded. Harry got the full 50 points for finishing first, bringing him to 100 total. Viktor got 35 for finishing a quarter of an hour after Harry, but 10 bonus points for the golden pearl, which meant he tied Harry overall. Fleur received 30 points, which meant she was now 10 points behind the two wizards. The Veela didn’t seem to be disappointed. Not that Harry was paying that much attention to his fellow champions’ reactions, he was busy collecting his retainer.

*****

Barty Crouch Junior, polyjuiced to look like a disreputable wizard currently sleeping in his room after he had overindulged on fire whiskey last night, folded the Daily Prophet and dropped it on the table in the Leaky Cauldron together with a few sickles. His parasites had been discovered. He had expected that - Hagrid was one of the foremost experts for magical creatures in Britain after all. But not only had it kept his master’s enemies busy and focused on the tournament, he had also gained valuable information about how the Aurors and Dumbledore handled his sabotage attempts. They were clever, but were they clever enough to anticipate his plans? He’d find out.

*****

Hermione Granger was in hell. Quidditch hell, to be precise. February was the month of the Triwizard Tournament’s Quidditch competition, and Hogwarts seemed to have gone mad. Or madder than the school normally got about that infernal game when a match took place. The young witch had managed to ignore the tryouts and training sessions while helping Harry prepare for the tournament tasks and getting ready for the duelling competition, but that was not possible now. Harry, who really should be preparing for the next task, was training the seeker of the Hogwarts team. He claimed it was training for the third task, which would be a broom race of sorts, but Hermione knew better. Ron of course was spending more time on watching the trainings, watching the training sessions of the other teams, and discussing Quidditch with whoever would listen - which were far too many in her opinion - than on studying.

One match would be held each Saturday, pitting all the teams of the three schools against each other, and the fourth match, on the 26th, would pit the two best teams against each other. The two best teams out of three seemed a bit less than impressive to Hermione, but she knew better than to voice that opinion. Or to criticize Quidditch at all, even though the rules made no sense! They may have made sense when the game was created, but with the modern high-performance brooms, the rules should really be adjusted. Seeker bias was fact, not an invention by jealous chasers!

At least Harry had invited Fleur and Viktor again this week. Hopefully they’d not talk about Quidditch, or not too much. A slim hope, she knew, with Ron and Harry present, even though Viktor seemed to prefer not to talk about Quidditch. Maybe they’d focus more on the second task. It was certainly, in her admittedly biased opinion, noteworthy how Harry had won against the two older champions. The Daily Prophet too had been full of praise for Harry’s performance, with many pictures of him shooting through the water, but also of his fights. Hermione had winced each time she had seen the first page, which featured Harry getting hit into a coral reef and sliding along it, trailing blood. Harry, the stupid boy, had wanted to get it framed!

She was alone in the training room, since both Ron and Harry were still at the Quidditch practise. The young witch hoped they’d remember the event - she had reminded them twice, each, today. Sighing, she sat down on the couch. She would rather be at the pitch herself, near her friends, even if Harry would be off on his broom, but somebody had to prepare the room, and the refreshments. She touched her torc and wished it would grow warm soon.

*****

Harry Potter enjoyed the evening with his fellow champions. And with Hermione. He hadn’t seen her outside classes as much as usual this week, due to Quidditch, he realised. That might have explained the slight surprise, quickly replaced by a wide smile, she had shown when he had arrived earlier than expected, dragging Ron with him. He suddenly felt more than a bit guilty, and covered it up with taking a long sip from his drink. Hermione had done so much for him, her spell had allowed him to win the second task, and he was all but ignoring her in favor of Quidditch as a reward?

“That was a surprising tactic in the second task, Harry. I didn’t recognize the spells you were using. Where did you find them?” Viktor leaned a bit forward, curiosity evident on his face.

“It was all Hermione’s idea. She created the spells and taught them to me.” Harry gestured to the witch sitting at his side, who blushed at the appraising looks she got from the two champions.

“I only modified the spells. The Bubble-Head Charm and the Aguamenti Spell. And I knew the Aguamenti could be modified to serve as a propulsion since I saw a classmate of us knock a teacher over with it by mistake.” Hermione’s embarrassment at the attention had vanished with the start of her explanation - her lecture, Ron would call it. Harry loved to see her like this, showing just how smart she was. She usually hid her talents too much, in his opinion. He could understand that - she already got some grief for being the best student of her year, mostly from Slytherins and Ravenclaws - but he didn’t have to like it. She deserved better.

“But ‘ow did the Bubble-Head Charm make ‘arry swim faster?” Fleur sounded a bit confused, even after Hermione’s had detailed her work.

Harry refilled his glass while Hermione started to explain of the Supercavitation effect. He already had heard it after all, and he was sure the two other champions and Ron would not get it. Wizards rarely understood science. Hermione said that was because magic not only didn’t rely on it, but often disproved it. Or, as the witch was fond to say, ‘seemed to disprove science’. She was determined to unite scientific and magical theory, one day. Harry was sure that if anyone could manage it, it was his best friend.

As expected neither Fleur nor Viktor had understood Hermione’s explanation. Ron, Harry noticed, had not even listened, but seemed amused by the two champions’ reaction. Taking pity on them, Harry changed the topic - somewhat. “I noticed you ignored the marid as I had done, Fleur, while Viktor engaged it. Why did you skip it?”

“The marid would ‘ave attacked me; I would never ‘ave gotten an acceptable deal out of ‘er. ‘er kind ’ates my kind.” The Veela smiled at her two rivals. “The water is not my element. I did better than I expected though, and the next task will take place in the air, where I am at ‘ome.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at her implied confidence of victory in the next task. “We shall see that. Viktor is a star seeker, after all, and I am a fair flyer, if I do say so myself.”

“Youngest seeker in a century!” Ron mentioned with a grin.

“Oh, yes. But you are quidditch players. This will be a race.” The Veela’s smile widened.

Harry connected the dots. “And you are a broom racer.”

“I am not looking to race professionally, but I am a fair racer, if I do say so myself.” If Fleur’s grin was any wider it would have split her face.

Harry was about to answer with a rather feeble promise to do his best to prove her wrong when he noticed Hermione’s expression. His retainer was frowning, and then trying to hide a smirk. He knew she had thought of something. “We shall see”, he answered, with what he hoped was a confident smile that did not give away anything. Viktor just grumbled something about even odds.

“You are very lucky to ‘ave ‘ermione, ‘arry.” Apparently, Fleur had noticed Hermione’s reaction as well.

“Yes, I am.” Harry slipped his arm around the witch in question, and pulled her closer, ignoring her surprised sound at his possessive gesture. “She’s the brightest witch of her generation and my best friend.”

*****

“I should be the seeker.” Pansy Parkinson had stopped counting how often Draco had said that sentence in a voice that was growing more petulant with each repetition. “Not Diggory. Everyone knows seekers have to be lithe, like me, not a brute like him.”

Pansy had to struggle to keep her face from showing her reaction. No one sane would call one of the most handsome wizards at Hogwarts a ‘brute’. Cedric was a witch’s dream - muscular, but not overly so, with a charming smile that rivaled Lockhart’s, perfect manners and skilled with a wand. He had gone the farthest of all Hogwarts students in the duelling competition, after all. She longed to hex Draco for his insult, but forced herself to simply smile, pat his arm, and make an agreeing sound. She did not even mention that Viktor Krum, thought by many to be the best seeker of those currently active, was anything but lithe.

They were in the arena, reshaped to form a Quidditch pitch that conformed to international regulations. The enchantments on the arena allowed the spectators, for the first time for many enthusiasts who had not been able to attend the World Cup, to really follow the action on the pitch. It was a unique experience, and Pansy wouldn’t miss it for the world. She could not think of any decent wizard or witch who would want to miss this - according to rumor a 7th year Gryffindor had broken down crying when Snape had given him detention for this afternoon, but Dumbledore had overruled the detention. Even Granger was present, and everyone knew the mudblood hated Quidditch and wouldn’t be found within a mile around the pitch if her Patron was not playing. Or, as was the case today, watching. Pansy had to smile at the thought of Granger forced to attend, unable to even read a book, as she was usually doing when she watched Potter train, to avoid a faux-pas. And the mudblood couldn’t cozy up to Potter either, since they were in public. She must be squirming in her seat, hoping for a quick catch!

Hogwarts was playing Beauxbatons today, in the opening match of the Quidditch competition. Although it was more like Gryffindor’s Quidditch team with a Hufflepuff seeker and a Slytherin keeper were meeting Beauxbatons’ finest today. Pansy had expected more Slytherins to protest the line up, but apart from Draco and half the team most of the Quidditch enthusiasts and players had agreed that it was smarter to send players who were used to playing together. Apart from the seeker and keeper, of course. Miles Bletchley was the keeper of the Slytherin team, and the best keeper in Hogwarts after Wood had graduated - he certainly had had enough practise against the Gryffindor chasers. Cedric was simply too good to let the red headed little girl that had replaced Potter for this year fly. It wasn’t as if the seeker was much of a team player to begin with: only a few seekers were as crazy as Potter and tried to disrupt the opponent’s formations and plays.

Draco was still complaining. Briefly rolling her eyes, Pansy distracted him with a quick rules question. She knew the answer already, of course, but Draco loved it when he could show off ‘superior’ knowledge and experience. While he was explaining, and telling her an anecdote from one of his matches, she watched the Hogwarts chasers score again. It felt weird to cheer for the ‘Flying Foxes’, but it was Hogwarts against their rival school from France. And Hogwarts was doing well - they were in the lead by a comfortable margin of 120 to 60. Not that that would matter much if the French seeker caught the snitch first.

“And Diggory has spotted the snitch! There he dives!” The announcer - not Jordan, every teacher had vetoed that idea of Dumbledore’s, or so rumor claimed - drew everyone’s attention to Cedric, who was flying almost straight down. For a moment Pansy’s breath caught in her throat. If he couldn’t pull up in time… that was how players got hurt or even died on the pitch. From the side the French seeker was closing in, but unless the snitch moved far faster than before, he’d not reach it before Cedric. There! The handsome Hufflepuff - and hadn’t that a ring to it? - pulled up, almost as close to the ground as Potter at his craziest, fist held high. “And Diggory caught the snitch! He caught the snitch! Hogwarts wins 270 to 60!” The announcer’s voice almost broke with excitement.

Draco was trying to say something, probably claiming he’d have found the snitch quicker, had he flown, but the crowd’s roar was drowning his words out. Pansy didn’t even notice, she was shouting as loud as any Hufflepuff student just to make sure she could not hear what he was saying.

*****

Harry was proud the Hogwarts Quidditch team had made such a good showing, even though Diggory had not wanted to use Harry’s tactics. He didn’t know why the wizard refused - with his greater mass, he’d have had an easier time at disrupting chaser formations. Harry had even offered to let the Hufflepuff use his Firebolt, but that too had been refused as ‘not fair’. As if Durmstrang would not use Viktor’s broom, if it was not his stake for the tournament!

Hermione had buried herself in research again, first studying the tournament and broom race rules, to check if her idea was even legal, then starting spellcrafting. He worried about the witch; she was overdoing it again. At least it meant he did not have to feel guilty for training with the Quidditch team since she would be busy anyway.

He spotted Susan in the stands. The witch had often been watching him practise lately, claiming she was showing that there were no hard feelings to counteract what rumors were still making the rounds. It made sense to Harry. After what the Hufflepuffs had done to Patil and Brown, he’d hate to have anyone target him for an imagined insult. Or, much worse, Hermione.

He dove towards the ground as if he was pulling a Wronski Feint, then pulled up in time to come to a stop in front of the girl, who had shrieked in surprise. Easily startled, he thought.

“Hi Susan!”

“H-hi Harry. That was some move you pulled.” She looked still a bit shaken.

“Just a normal dive. I can go far faster and closer to the ground.” He made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. “I have to get used to this broom anyway, I can’t use my Firebolt in the next task.”

“Why not?” Susan pouted.

“Everyone’s using the same broom. Makes the field even.”

“I guess that’s true.” The witch reached over to him and brushed some grass from his sleeve. Probably from the roll he had practised earlier, when he had been flying low to the ground.

“Hermione was impressed by the spells on Patil and Brown, by the way. She said it was a very exotic and interesting selection.” Harry grinned at the thought.

“Really? … I mean, I am certain the unknown wizards and witches who cast those hexes would be glad to hear that.” Susan had frowned a bit at first, Harry noticed. Was she feeling a bit guilty at the ‘prank’, or had she hoped the spells would last longer?

“Yes. She probably would have reverse-engineered a number of them, if she was not busy preparing for the next task,” he said.

“Reverse-what?” Susan looked confused.

“Recreated.” He reminded himself to choose his words more carefully. Muggle technical terms tended to not just go over the head of wizards, but wouldn’t fit his carefully crafted public image, as Hermione had said. Even though she was where he got those terms from for the most part.

“Ah. That’s why she is not here, supporting you?”

“Yes.” Harry felt a bit of an annoyance at the suggestion Hermione would not support him, but let it go. They chatted a bit more, or gossiped, as some would say. Harry enjoyed the break, but also felt a bit guilty when he took to the air again, though he didn’t know why.

*****

Ron Weasley was jumping up from his seat, whooping. That had been a beautiful combination by the Gryffindor chasers! He sat back down again, and turned to Padma. “Did you see that? A triple pass with a corkscrew shot at the end! The keeper stood no chance!”

“Ah, yes.” Padma smiled and nodded, but she looked slightly annoyed. Not as much as Hermione usually did though. He glanced over at Harry and Hermione, which were sitting next to him. His best female friend was smiling, but slightly forced. Harry was clueless, as usual.

“If they keep that up, then it won’t matter who catches the snitch,” he said. He understood that Padma was not as interested in Quidditch as he was; the Ravenclaws rarely had a good enough team to matter. They weren’t quite the Chudley Cannons of Hogwarts, but came close. And he felt that they were the least enthusiastic of the Houses, even if Hermione was still calling them fanatical. She didn’t see the nuances he saw.

Padma leaned against him again, and he realised he had shoved her by accident when he had jumped up. “I am sorry for shoving you,” he apologized, it a bit late.

“It was nothing. I know you’re passionate about Quidditch”, the Indian witch answered him with a smile.

Ron was wondering, again, if she fancied him. He had asked for Harry’s opinion on the matter, but his friend had had no idea either. Ron had not wanted to ask Hermione, but Harry had brought the question up before he could stop him. The witch had not been able to help either - she certainly understood his concern that this was just a way for Padma to one-up her sister, but she hadn’t been able to tell either way. Parvati was claiming that, but Hermione had said the Gryffindor twin would be doing that even if Padma fancied Ron. And asking Luna about her fellow Ravenclaw was asking for trouble. The blonde witch was likely to loudly ask in the Great Hall if Padma fancied Ron or was just trying to needle her twin.

Ron still remembered that dinner at the Burrow when Luna had asked about his mum’s brothers, which had led to the Lovegoods not being invited again for more than half a year, even though his family was not exactly overflowing with opportunities to exchange invitations. Ron almost sighed, thinking about the Weasleys’ finances and social status. Most of his dad’s colleagues were richer and therefore expected better, meaning more expensive, entertainment at a dinner party than the Weasleys could provide, despite the twin’s talents, and even while his mum’s cooking rivaled that of professional cooks, it was not enough to compensate for that.

Another goal made him jump up again, and shout with glee. He quickly glanced at Padma, but she didn’t show any sign of annoyance, even though she had almost slid off her chair. That had to mean something, right?

Ron still had not gotten any closer to unravel the mystery of witches in general, and one Ravenclaw witch in particular by the time the Durmstrang seeker had caught the snitch, deciding the match. At least they had a better point spread than Beauxbatons. If only Cedric had not been so far away when the snitch had appeared… though Harry might have made the catch anyway. Even if Hermione would have torn strips off him afterwards - she had a weird view of what risks were acceptable in Quidditch.

*****

Luna was distracting, Hermione found. And not just because instead of sitting on a chair, the blonde was sitting on her desk, with her legs dangling right next to Hermione, shoes hanging from one toe each. Nor was she distracting because she was craning her neck to peer at the book Hermione was currently reading, and her long hair was almost, but never quite, brushing over the dictaquill that was writing down the notes the Gryffindor witch was taking. Her comments were even helpful - apparently, the Ravenclaw had picked up more than a bit from her late mother’s work. But she was, well, one couldn’t call it grabby, but she had a far different view of personal space than anyone else Hermione knew, outside 6th year students at the start of their first term. And that wasn’t an association she needed to make.

“Are you sure this is safe? If the spell’s not anchored enough, it’ll push the caster off the broom. Or he goes splat,” Luna asked.

“It’s anchored to the caster. I thought about anchoring it to the broom, but in a crash, that would be dangerous to the rider; he’d slam into the barrier.” No need to say who would be suffering such a fate. Both witches knew this was a spell for Harry. Even though Hermione hoped some broom racers might pick it up. It would be a feather in her cap - though it was more likely that the rules for broom racing would be changed to ban her spell, and similar ones. Wizard sports were conservative. They only had changed to an artificial snitch when they had started to run out of the birds because they were going extinct. Quidditch maniacs! But until then, her spell was not against any rules.

“Ah.” Luna steadied herself with a hand on Hermione’s shoulder while she twisted her body to look at the notes sideways. “And will he fly well with only one hand?”

Hermione winced. “That’s the thing I still need to work on. If he needs to sustain the spell with his wand, then it won’t be of much use since you need both hands to fly competitively. It could still be useful on straight parts of a course, but they would need to be quite long to offset the time lost drawing and later storing the wand.”

“Chasers often fly one-handed while carrying the quaffle. Seekers too, while grasping for the snitch.” Almost absent-mindedly, Luna picked up a strand of Hermione’s hair that had escaped her hairstyling charm. The older witch was tempted to slap her hand away, but told herself that Luna was just being Luna.

“I know, but broom racers do not. I wish I could do an enchantment, but that’s not allowed. I thought about transfiguring water into a transparent shield, but that would be too heavy for a race.” The muggleborn witch frowned.

Luna patted her shoulder in a comforting, if again quite touchy-feely gesture. “You’ll manage, Hermione. Just be very careful. You’re too cute to risk yourself by taking hasty steps.”

“Thanks…” Hermione trailed off, unsure how to react, when the Ravenclaw ruffled her hair again, and then jumped off the desk and skipped towards the exit of the library. Sighing, she fixed her hair, again, and tried to concentrate on her work, again.

*****

Draco Malfoy was bored. No, not bored, restless. The Slytherin common room was filled with students discussing the recent Beauxbatons-Durmstrang match. Durmstrang had won, of course - a team that had defeated Hogwarts would not be beaten by the French. And yet his so-called peers were rehashing the match as if there was anything to be gained by it. Hogwarts had lost because of an inept seeker. If he had been flying, his school had won. But they had made their bed when they had picked Diggory over him, now they could sleep in it. There was a quip in that, he thought.

Sighing, he faked paying attention to his girlfriend, who was supportive as usual. As she should be. And yet even her fawning did little to soothe him. At first, the knowledge that he was no mere student anymore, that he had been blooded, had fought for the sacred cause, had helped him tolerate the filth in Hogwarts, the insults from the rabble beneath him. But the longer he had to endure this, the more he felt the urge to cross wands in battle, not mere duels. To fight, to kill. To feel that rush again, to see his enemies cry out in pain, to see them beg, to see them die…

His father had told him to wear a mask at school, to play the rule-abiding student, until he was called upon again, and yet Draco felt he could do so much for the cause here. Those students were sheep, not veterans such as him. They were ripe for some culling. He was a Slytherin. He was cunning. He could do something without anyone knowing who had done it.

But his father had told him not to do anything without his say. And his figurative mask here did not offer him the freedom to act as he wished, unlike the real mask he had left at home. Sighing, he summoned another butterbeer. The things one had to endure for the cause...

*****

The final match of the Quidditch competition saw Hogwarts facing Durmstrang again. As Harry had expected, to be honest - Beauxbatons simply was not that good at Quidditch. Hopefully, that wouldn’t mean Fleur was as good at broom racing as she claimed to be. He didn’t think the Veela had been boasting too much though. Well, she would not be facing just him, but his best friend as well. He glanced over to the witch in question, sitting on his left side, and frowned. His retainer was scribbling notes down still. Spellcrafting, he’d bet his broom on it. She was overdoing it again, stressing, wearing herself out, all for him. And he couldn’t do anything about it, she had every right to it, with herself being at stake. Even though he’d only lose the gold to ransom her back. Luna, sitting on Hermione’s other side, wasn’t helping there - the blonde witch was craning her head so much to read whatever Hermione was writing, Harry expected her to fall over and into Hermione’s lap any minute.

A poke from Susan Bones, sitting on his right side, brought him back to the game. The teams were making their entrances. He mouthed ‘thanks’ to the redheaded witch while the crowd roared and applauded in response to the Hogwarts team flying a quick lap around the arena. Harry cheered as well, even though he still felt he should be flying with them up there, not watching down here. He was the best seeker in the school. He knew it, and everyone else but maybe Malfoy knew it as well.

Sighing, he pushed back his envy. At least Viktor was not flying either. It would have really galled him to miss out on facing the probably best seeker in Europe.

And the game was on! Gryffindor managed to get the quaffle, and the chasers flew in a V-formation. Harry glanced at Cedric, who was already flying laps around the arena, high above the goal rings. Just what seekers should be doing, according to standard doctrine. Harry frowned. He’d be diving at the Durmstrang chasers in his place, and disrupting their formation so Hogwarts could score. Cedric could do the same, Harry knew that - he had trained him, after all. But the Hufflepuff simply didn’t want to. Harry didn’t know why - it was neither unfair nor foolhardy, no matter what Cedric claimed. Anyone else he had asked from the team had agreed, as had Ron. Hermione hadn’t, of course, but she didn’t count when it came to Quidditch.

“What’s Cedric doing?” Susan’s question confused him a bit. Shouldn’t she know that?

Nevertheless, he explained it: “The other seeker is shadowing him, and he’d have the advantage in a dive, so Cedric went lower to negate that. Now the other seeker can either follow him, but lose his advantage, or stay up high, and gain a slight advantage in spotting the snitch.” He saw Susan smile, and added. “It’s a bit riskier as a tactic that I would have expected Cedric to try. He’s usually far more cautious.”

That drew a giggle from Susan, and a snort from Hermione, She couldn’t voice whatever sarcastic comment just had to have gone through her mind though, not in public. Small mercies, Harry thought, something he’d never mention to her, of course.

The game quickly settled - if that was the right word for it - into a fierce, almost brutal back and forth between the chasers, with the beaters nailing a few on either side, but not hard enough to take anyone struck out of the game, fortunately. Harry studied the maneuvers. He would have to pull some similar moves in the air task, there would certainly be bludgers flying around as well, but no beaters to keep them away. On the other hand, he was allowed to use his wand. The thought of blowing up a bludger or two with a curse was very satisfying after what he had suffered through in some of his matches.

He hoped Hermione would finish her spell soon, so he could train with it. If she took too long he wouldn’t be able to get the most out of it, and all her work would have been for nothing. Glancing at her, he saw she was studying the chasers too, and taking notes. If only she showed so much interest when it was just Quidditch!

Again Susan distracted him from his thoughts with a brief touch from her hand to his knee and a question. “Harry, have you spotted the snitch yet?”

“No, I haven’t yet. So, Cedric hasn’t had a chance to miss it so far.” He grinned, to take the sting out of his jibe - Hufflepuffs took House solidarity seriously. Susan still stuck her tongue out at him, but she was laughing. Good.

The chasers of both teams were scoring quite evenly, with a slight advantage for Hogwarts. Angelina was using Harry’s Firebolt for the occasion, so that was not a real surprise. Still, the advantage was so slight, and the lead building up so slowly, Harry thought, the seekers would have to miss catching the snitch for hours for that to decide the match. It would be coming down to the seekers, as usual. Hermione would take that as more ‘proof’ that Quidditch needed rules changes, but she was no seeker, she’d not understand! She was barely pretending to watch the game by now, instead she was talking to Luna. About the spell she was working on, Harry thought. Hoped.

Then his attention was caught by a small golden glint across the arena - the snitch was circling around a side stand. Harry hated it when he spotted the snitch before anyone else, but wasn’t playing. It was annoying, having to wait for the others to catch on. He did try not to look too obviously at the ball - he’d not put it past some of the players to keep an eye out for him, and take their clues from that. But it was still annoying. He wanted to catch the snitch, not watch it!

A hand patting his thigh distracted him. His left thigh. Hermione. He didn’t know how she had noticed his state, focused on her work, but he appreciated the gesture. Before he could thank her though, even if it was just with a glance, the announcer started shouting and the crowd went wild.

“Diggory’s cutting across the field, has he spotted the snitch? He has spotted the snitch! And Ivanov is diving, he has caught on! Who will reach the snitch first? Diggory’s rolling to avoid a bludger, losing some speed, but it still looks like… no, the snitch darted away in the last second! Diggory’s giving chase, and so is Ivanov, who almost plowed into the ground! It’s a neck to neck race!”

No one was paying any attention to the chaser’s anymore, or the other players. Harry saw Cedric roll again, bumping the other seeker to the side without being too obvious about it, and made a mental note of the move. That could be useful in the upcoming task. He was standing, like everyone else, even Hermione and Luna, and watched while Cedric battled the other seeker. If only he had taken the Firebolt Harry had offered! The snitch would be turning any second now, Harry knew. But in which direction? Down! And Cedric rolled with his broom again, managing an upside down catch! Harry cheered as loud as every other Hogwarts student. Hogwarts had won! Due to his excitement, he didn’t even notice at first that Susan was hugging him, not Hermione.

*****

Hermione was having some trouble focusing on her work. The memory of that scene yesterday, Susan Bones hugging Harry, kept distracting her. She didn’t know why. Susan was a safe friend for Harry. Friendly, pretty, loyal - she was not a Hufflepuff for nothing - and while a pureblood, she was in line to becoming head of her family, and therefore very unlikely to ever marry Harry. She also did not seem to be someone who’d try to exploit Harry’s fame. Safe to be around. So why had Hermione felt the need to elbow her out of the way and hug Harry herself yesterday, if Harry hadn’t been in danger?

Sighing, she focused on her notes again. Thanks in part to Luna’s help - and she didn’t want to think about that blonde witch right now either, thank you very much - she was very close to finishing her spell. She might have even finished it already, if not for the whole school celebrating their victory at Quidditch over Durmstrang last night. Loudly, enthusiastically, and for a long, long time. Harry had dragged her with him, not heeding her protests, citing that she needed a break, and she had spent several hours in the company of crazy Quidditch fans going wild. And in the company of Harry, of course.

Smiling, the muggleborn witch took a look at the book on aerodynamics her parents had sent her, rechecking the shape she needed. It should work. It wouldn’t last too long as the equations to extend the effect were still beyond her. Well, she could manage them, if only she had more time. Or a calculator.

Looking at the slide and the abacus on the table she sighed again, hunching her shoulders a bit. She longed to work on ‘hardening’ electronics. If she had a calculator here, or a computer, the things she could do… And she was sure she was on the right track, this time. Wards had to be the key. But Harry needed her spell now. It would help him a lot in the tournament, and would add some protection against whatever attempt at sabotage that assassin after him might try in the third task. And, if she was honest with herself, she wanted Harry to not just survive the tournament, but to win it. She’d rather not get ransomed back. It would not only set back their, or rather, Harry’s finances by a lot, but it would feel far too close to getting traded and sold like property. Like muggleborns were treated, back when that cursed goblet was created.

She leaned back, all pretense of working on her spell gone. To be fair, Wizarding Britain’s society had moved past that. Centuries ago, even. But the laws had not kept pace with that development, and precedents only went that far, since they were built on tradition and custom. Either of which could change - for the worse as well.

The young witch straightened her pose. She couldn’t depend on tradition and custom. But she could depend on power. Harry’s, and, even if she had to use it through him, at least for now, her own. She glared at her notes, as if daring them to defy her for much longer. They’d win this Tournament, and use this opportunity to win more fame, more gold, more power. More freedom, in the end.

*****

“I have to thank you again, Harry. If not for your tutoring and training, Cedric might not have caught the snitch. That last move, that roll… you taught him that, right?” Susan was smiling widely, and leaning forward, towards Harry. He idly noted that she had changed her hairstyling spell somewhat. Her red mane was longer, and a bit … wilder was a good description. Strands were flowing gently in a breeze that seemed to only touch the hair, and nothing else.

“Oh, no. I haven’t taught him that, to be honest. I was trying to teach him how to disrupt chaser formations.” They were sitting with Luna and Aicha in the Great Hall, at the Hufflepuff table this time. Not for the first time Harry was wondering why there was no common room for the school so one could sit with friends from other Houses. They made do with the house tables, but even with a lot of privacy and other spells, it was not as cozy or convenient as a dedicated common room. Too spacious, too open, and too many doors and entrances a teacher could come in from, and see things best not seen by the staff.

“My Patron.” He hadn’t seen Hermione approach until she had addressed him.

“My Wand.” Another drawback of using the Great Hall: Even with privacy spells, and surrounded by friends, they were still in public, and therefore forms had to be adhered to.

“I’ve finished my project.” Hermione was looking tired, but she was beaming with pride. Harry knew that expression well. Resistance was futile, as the Borg would say. He stood up and turned to Susan.

“Susan, I am afraid, but I am being called away.” Close to be dragged away, he knew, if they were not in public and maybe a year younger. Hurricane Hermione, Ron had called it once, in their second year.

“Of course. Duty comes first.” Susan smiled politely, and nodded while he bowed slightly. Hermione was falling in behind him as he strode out of the hall. His friend cast a privacy spell as they entered a corridor.

“You have finished the spell then,” he said.

“Yes! It turned out well - better than I expected, if a bit less than I hoped.” Hermione sounded excited. Harry mentally rescheduled his evening. Evenings. He’d not get a free minute until he had learned the spell, he knew that from experience. “The wandwork is a bit complicated, but you’ll have no trouble mastering it I’d say. It’s sort of derived from a Shield Charm.”

‘A bit complicated’ she said? Oh, yes. Harry’s next few evenings were definitely spoken for. On the other hand, he was looking forward to some time spent with Hermione, just the two of them. He had been missing that lately, he suddenly realised.

*****

“No, no. It’s ‘Ae-ro-ar-ma-gut-tis’. Emphasize the ‘ro’, Harry!”

Harry definitely had not been missing this. Hermione was a gifted spellcrafter, a genius, a prodigy at magic, the smartest witch he knew, but she wasn’t the kindest teacher. ‘Taskmaster from hell’, Ron had once called her, behind her back. Harry hadn’t disagreed.

“AeROarmaguttis.” Harry repeated it a few times until his friend was satisfied.

“Perfect! Now, the wandwork goes like this…” Harry lost her half a dozen swishes or flicks into the demonstration. And that was not even halfway to the finish.

“I thought it was a derivate from a normal shield spell?” Harry knew she had claimed that.

“I had to modify the spell a lot more than I wanted.” Hermione looked so defensive, he felt bad at once. She had done so much for him, and he criticized her?

“I am sorry, it’s just a bit daunting. But I am sure it’ll help me a lot.” If I ever manage to learn it, and then learn to cast it on a broom, he added in his head.

Beaming, Hermione nodded several times. “Exactly! And you have almost a whole month left to learn it!” Harry realised that his friend was far more exhausted than he had suspected, and probably was running on Pepper-Up potions. Or sheer manic excitement at having finished another spell.

“Hermione, how long did you sleep last night?” The way she looked away was not a good sign. But a familiar sign. He sighed. “You need sleep. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

“But…”

“Bed. Now.”

She caved, and followed him to the Gryffindor dorm, even though she was mumbling protests under her breath. Harry didn’t listen. Hermione needed her rest, and as her Patron, it was his duty to provide for her.

*****

The day of the third task was, appropriately, sunny and warm - for the end of March in Scotland. Hermione, sitting at her by now customary place next to the judges, was still grateful for the warming charms on her robe. The arena had been expanded, and filled with floating rings, each of them just about wide enough to let a flyer through with some space to spare. The champions would have to pass through them in a set order. The ring a champion had to fly through next would light up in the colors chosen for him or her - Blue for Fleur, Red for Viktor, Green, no doubt to the delight of the Slytherins, for Harry. Hermione told herself it was also the color of his eyes.

The three champions were currently slowly flying through the course, to familiarize both themselves and the spectators with it. It was, in Hermione’s opinion, insane. She might be a bit biased, seeing as she was no fan of Quidditch, but the race had sharp turns aplenty, as well as dives and climbs, even a loop. And a long dive where the champions had to follow a corkscrew pattern. The rings were just wide enough for one flyer, meaning they’d serve as a bottleneck, and Harry would only be able to overtake his competitors between two rings - and even Hermione was able to see that there were not too many parts of the course long enough between two rings to allow that. It was, she realised with a sinking feeling, a bit like the Formula One course in Monaco. Just three laps, not 78 though. She hoped the racing robes the champions were wearing would offer enough protection in the crashes she feared would happen.

And that was just the course. There were the obstacles too. Not only would artificial winds, unpredictable, hinder the flyers, but bludgers would roam the airspace. She could spot half a dozen of them being contained inside a magical barrier, the enchanted iron balls bouncing off the invisible walls as if they were mad with rage and fury. There were thunderbirds circling overhead, magical animals from America who were able to discharge lightning at their foes. And there would be fog too, reducing visibility to dangerously short distances in some parts. Not for the first time Hermione felt a strong desire, almost a primal need, to hurt whoever forced Harry into this tournament. If she ever got her wand pointed at them… And Merlin help Harry should he plan to re-enter that tournament in their 7th year! Even if the rules might let a former champion compete again, this witch would blow up the goblet and then Harry before she would allow that!

*****

Harry gripped the handle of his broom with one hand and recast a sticking charm on his robes with his wand. While Hermione’s spell would shield him from bludgers - at least to some degree - it would not protect him from lightning, and if he was knocked off his broom he would lose enough time to be out of the race, unless Fleur and Viktor suffered the same fate. His racing robes felt unfamiliar to him, but at least he was not stripped of protective enchantments. Crashing into a ring would still hurt, at least if the aerodynamic shield ended at the wrong moment.

He hadn’t told Hermione so, but the spell was not as effective as she imagined it. It had a rather short duration, and while Harry had learned - after great efforts - to cast it while flying, recasting it would still mean he’d lose speed. And whenever the spell ended, or started, the aerodynamics of him and his broom would change too. That was the idea, of course, but it meant that he had to be very careful with his timing, or he might suddenly find the spell ending in the middle of a slightly dangerous maneuver. And compensating for sudden, drastic changes in how his broom flew and steered were not the thing he wanted to do in tight turns at the speeds he would be flying at. No matter what some of his friends thought when talking about his flying, he was not fond of taking crazy risks - he simply had a stricter definition of what counted as a crazy risk.

Not for the first time he wished he could fly his Firebolt. He simply knew that broom as well as he knew his own body. Spell or not, he could be sure to handle it perfectly. But the rules were the rules - everyone would be using the same broom, a racing model from Cleansweep called ‘Marathon’. Next to him Viktor was sitting astride his broom, eyes on the starting line. The Bulgarian champion was so focused, Harry wasn’t sure if he could even hear the crowd’s murmuring in his state. Next to Viktor, Fleur was sitting on her broom - side saddle style. The French Veela was the picture of careless elegance, a witch out for a pleasant joyride, not a champion about to enter a race. Harry knew the casual, almost lounging manner she displayed was just a ploy to unnerve him, but it was working anyway.

He knew how Viktor flew, had seen him at the World Cup, and sometimes in Quidditch training. More importantly though, Harry was a seeker himself. He knew how seekers flew, and thought. But he knew nothing about racers, such as Fleur. And he knew Hermione’s new spell would not give him as big an advantage as her other spell had given him in the second task. He could only hope that whatever help it would provide would be enough.

The tournament official on the broom next to them checked his watch, and raised his wand. A red light shot up.The crowd grew silent as the three champions steered their brooms to the starting line. Even Fleur was now astride her broom.

“Ready.” The man’s voice carried through the arena thanks to a sonorus spell. Harry leaned forward, wand in hand, ready to cast at once.

“Go!” And the race was on!

“Aeroarmaguttis!” Harry urged his broom forward while his wand went through the motions, then followed up with a sticking charm. He was falling behind a bit, but not too much. His spell finished and a shield, almost invisible to the eye, formed around him. No longer was the wind hitting him in the face, tearing at his robes. No longer did he hear the noise from the airflow and the shouts from the crowd of spectators dimmed. And he shot forward!

Grinning, he slid the wand back into his holster with a well-practised flick and gripped his broom’s handle with both hands. As he passed Viktor he barely noticed the Bulgarian’s surprised expression since he was already counting down in his head. ‘One. Two. Three…’

The spell would last thirty-one seconds, more or less, as he and Hermione had found out. He almost caught up to Fleur, but the Veela was already passing through the first ring, and Harry had to fly after her. A steep climb followed - almost like the start of an invisible rollercoaster.

‘Five. Six. Seven...’ With the spell forming a bubble around him, Harry wasn’t able to use the slipstream behind Fleur as much as he would like, and so he veered to the side, and tried to overtake her in the climb.

‘Nine. Ten. Eleven...’ It did not work. The Veela started to match his movements, glancing back at him under her shoulders, even flashing him a grin. A seeker wouldn’t have been able to do that, they had to keep their eyes on the snitch. Glance back too long, or too often, and you’d end up losing sight of the golden ball. A racer though could, and was used to do so.

‘Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen...’ Fleur passed through the next ring, still ahead of him. Even worse - their veering back and forth had allowed Viktor to catch up. Fleur was already in the steep dive when Harry shot through the ring. He was grinning though - he had done Wronski feints from higher up than this.

‘Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty...’ He changed his course just a bit, going down almost vertically, and as fast as he could. He saw the ground rush up at him. Almost.

‘Twenty-three. Twenty-Four. Twenty-Five…” He pulled up, as hard as he could. If the ground had been covered in grass he would have had green stains on his boots now. As it was, his shield hit the ground and shattered. A bit too close. But he had overtaken Fleur, even if he was a bit lower than the next ring. Heedless of the still diving Veela he steered straight ahead, forcing her to veer off or slow down to avoid a collision. She chose to slow down a bit, and he thought he heard French curses. Something about ‘Folie’. No matter - he was first through this ring, and had taken the lead. And probably given Hermione a heart attack.

As soon as he was through that ring, he recast his spell. Again he slowed down a bit - Fleur had almost caught up - but he finished in time to preserve his lead. A series of turns followed, each forced by a well-placed ring. Harry kept his lead, but couldn’t gain any distance - the bubble surrounding him was just large enough so he couldn’t cut corners as well as Fleur. And Viktor was not falling back much, he had gained some in the dive as well.

‘Eightteen. Nineteen. Twenty...’ Now for the looping. Harry pulled up, grinning. Ten seconds was plenty enough to complete the loop. Would have been, but for the thunderbirds who dove at him, screeching. He would have cast a Protego, but his Aeroarmaguttis was still going on. Cursing, he turned to the right, then dove, avoiding a lightning strike. Fleur and Viktor, both protected by a protego, shot past him, through the hoop. At least they had caught the attention of the thunderbirds and Harry was able to pass through the ring without getting hit with lightning.

‘Thirty, Thirty-one.’ His spell faded during another dive. The air hit his face hard. If not for his glasses he would have had a hard time keeping his eyes open, at his current speed. But he managed - and grinned. From his position he spotted half a dozen bludgers flying straight at his two competitors.

He slowed down a bit and recast Aeroarmaguttis. It really needed a better name, but Hermione’s proposals had been as awful as usual. That witch simply could not be trusted to name anything. While Fleur was having trouble dodging the bludgers, using her wand to blow two of them up, which caused her to fall back, and Viktor was rolling and twisting to avoid them, Harry came from above both of them, and simply barrelled through, the iron balls bouncing off his shield. He was in the lead again!

‘Ten. Eleven. Twelve...’ Another long, horizontal stretch, but very close to the ground. A slight mistake, and he’d bounce and shatter his shield again. Harry loved it! He would be able to distance the other champions here! Then fog rose from the ground, and visibility shrunk. For a moment he was tempted to simply fly straight on, at the ring, but caution won out - a small mistake, a gust of wind pushing him a bit to the side, and he’d smash into the ring instead of passing through.

By the time he rose up from the fog, Fleur and behind her Viktor had caught up some, and his spell had ended again. Another climb followed. He started to recast his spell, but was interrupted by a bludger that came at him from the sun. If not for his quick reflexive dodge the iron ball would have smashed into him or his broom. Even so it passed so close he could feel the air flow change. When the thing started to turn around he shot a Blasting Curse at it, blowing it up.

That had allowed Fleur to overtake him again though, and he was jockeying with Viktor for the position behind the French witch. Without the help of his aerodynamic shield, the Bulgarian’s greater mass easily won him that contest, and Harry passed through the ring in last place.

The corkscrew dive followed. He wouldn’t have a chance to overtake anyone in there, Harry knew, and so he simply flew after the other champions. Then he saw them getting battered by sudden gusts of wind, almost driven off course, and he cursed - if he had recast his shield, he would have been able to exploit that opportunity. As it was, it was all he could do to not get pushed off course himself, or driven into a ring - or, at the end, into the ground. He had to constantly react to changing winds, compensate for what felt like a randomly moving whirlwind. It was horrible. Crazy. Confusing. Exciting. He was panting when he flew through the last ring, but grinning widely.

When they passed the finishing line for the first time, he was still in last place. And now Fleur and Viktor were wise to his new spell’s capabilities. Somewhat, at least. He still cast it, to reduce the distance to them at least. By the time the first climb finished, he was right behind Viktor. And the Bulgarian was not an experienced racer, he couldn’t pull the same tricks as Fleur could to prevent Harry from overtaking him. He was as good in a dive though, but this time Harry knew how far he could go. He shot past Viktor, and came up in front of him, shield still holding, right behind Fleur. She managed to keep him in second place in the turns that followed, but only barely, and due to him having to recast his spell again.

‘Twenty’ They reached the looping again, but the thunderbirds were not present. Instead, the ‘ceiling’ of the arena, very close from here, seemed to shake, and he spotted what looked like owls impacting on it, some of them exploding, others dropping off packages that released liquids or gases. It did not seem to pass through the arena’s border, so he ignored it.

‘Thirty-one.’ He had to recast his shield after the looping. No bludgers around this time, though, and he was able to distance Viktor while sticking close to Fleur, until they entered the fog again. This time Harry trusted in the shield, and simply flew by instinct, passing the Veela with barely enough space to avoid hitting her, causing her to curse again. Then it was straight to the next ring, or what he felt was straight. He almost didn’t see the ring in time to correct his course, and shattered his shield when he hit the hoop off-centre, sending him spiraling out of the ideal route. He managed to regain control of his broom in time to keep the lead up to the corkscrew part.

This time he was ready, and with the shield on he managed to pass through the storm, as he dubbed it, without too much of a problem - only to run into a pack of bludgers right when his spell went out. He did a barrel roll, avoiding most of them with as much luck as skill, but the last clipped his side and would have thrown him off the broom if not for his sticking charm. He heard a sickening crack, then the pain hit him, and he screamed.

Harry reached the finishing line in first place, but lost that when he had to numb his side. Fleur shot past him, but he managed to block Viktor from passing him while he recast his shield, then started the last lap. Fleur kept him at bay until the dive, and this time she did not veer off when he pulled up from his dive - she was flying straight at him. For a second Harry was tempted to fly on, let her crash into his shield, then he veered off, letting the Veela pass. “You are crazy!” he shouted, following her.

The turns didn’t allow him an opportunity to overtake the Veela. But the looping, maybe… no, the thunderbirds were back. He had his wand in hand - he hadn’t stashed it since the first lap, he realised - then shook his head and pressed on. He wouldn’t win this race by playing it safe. Neither was Fleur, it seemed. Both of them wove around the thunderbirds, lightning strikes passing close to either of them. Fleur kept her lead, but Harry was so close now, his shield was almost bumping into her broom.

They dove towards the next ring, side by side. Harry’s shield went out. He couldn’t recast it in the dive, not without losing all speed. He did it anyway, Fleur was too skilled to let him overtake her without its help, and he needed it in the fog. His side being numbed affected his ability to shift his weight on the broom, and with it his flying, but the spell allowed him to compensate, some at least. This time Fleur too was going full-speed into the fog, and he was able to follow her, staying in her slipstream. He needed a chance to overtake her though, and soon.

The dive that followed the fogged stretch did provide that - more bludgers came at them, and Fleur was forced to dodge while he barreled through again, bouncing another off his shield. He kept her at a distance until the corkscrew dive, but it was close - she was gaining on him, hampered by his cracked or broken ribs. But he had his shield, and it would allow him to pass through the storm zone with much greater ease.

He lost his spell in the middle of the corkscrew turns, unexpectedly - it should have lasted longer than that - and cried in pain when the wind pushed his elbow into his side a few times. He couldn’t re-numb it either, he needed both his hands to keep control of his broom. Grinding his teeth, he finished the corkscrew turns behind Fleur. He recast the shield, but knew it would not be enough to catch up to the Veela until the finishing line. He still tried his best though. To no avail.

He managed to beat Viktor, at least, he told himself while Fleur flew a victory lap around the arena. That was something. When the healers on standby pulled him off the broom and started treating his side, and he saw his best friend rushing towards him, concern - and were those tears? - obvious on her face - he could only hope it was enough.

*****


	9. Curses

**Chapter 9: Curses**

Hermione Granger had been in all but agony, watching her best friend, her Patron, take such insane risks in the task. It had been worse than watching him play Quidditch. When that bludger hit him she almost lost it. Even though the entire race hadn’t taken longer than 15 minutes, almost the same amount of time that had been spent familiarizing the champions with the course, they had felt like hours for her. It hadn’t helped at all that the drawbacks - failings - of her spell that she had been aware of had been revealed in a drastic manner - in her opinion - through the race. If she had managed to craft a spell with a longer duration, maybe Harry wouldn’t have been hurt…

She didn’t cheer when Harry finished in second place. Not because she had expected him to win, or felt he had failed her, or whatever lies Malfoy, or others might come up with later. No, she didn’t cheer because she was already off her seat and on her way to Harry, protocol be damned.

She didn’t yell, but she ran. She didn’t quite bowl over a wizard in her way who was too slow for her, but she pushed him to the side and made him stumble in her haste to reach Harry. Her Patron greeting her with a weak smile didn’t reassure her in the slightest. She had barely enough self-control not to hinder the healer treating him, and she had drawn her wand already and would be checking their work as soon as they were done. As she so often did, she cursed whoever had invented flying brooms, and sports using flying brooms. At least she did it in her head, and not out loud - it would not do to embarrass Harry like that.

When the healer finished, patting his shoulder, and Harry got up with the all too familiar relieved smile that told her that he had been in more pain than he had wanted to admit, she longed to hug him, run her hands over him to reassure herself he was fine. Instead she had to settle for running her wand over him.

“My Patron.” She bowed slightly, her wand already pointed at him.

“My Wand.” He nodded at her, and she started to cast a diagnosis charm. It wasn’t one healers used - it was too old, not enough details - but it was the best she could do, and she needed to do something, anything for her Patron. Slowly she moved her wand around, over his ribs, then his limbs. He didn’t comment, but his smile, when she finished and met his eyes again, held the slight amusement and embarrassment she knew so well. She bowed again and took a step back, then moved to his side. The judges would award the points soon.

Fleur had won, earning 50 points. Harry received 45, for second place and his rather close time. Viktor’s 40 surprised Harry, as Hermione noticed. He probably had not realised just how close Viktor had come to overtaking him. Harry stayed in the lead with 145 total, followed by Fleur and Viktor, with 140 each. Quite the close match, Hermione realised. Even if Harry’s participation was the result of a manipulation, it seemed the Headmaster was correct in his assumption that the goblet would not have picked Harry if he truly would be out of his depth. She felt a brief, warm burst of pride for him. Then she started to fret about her own faults and mistakes again. If she had been faster, then Harry would have had more time to train with her spell…

*****

“I’ve checked the remains. The owls were purchased from the Owl Emporium. On the day before the task.”

Alastor entered Albus Dumbledore’s office without much of a greeting other than a nod. Sometimes, the Headmaster thought, his old friend was a bit too gruff.

“I assume the description of the buyer was of no use?” Albus didn’t think the assassin, whoever he or she was, would have made such a mistake. But one still had to check, and his friend would have done so, and would not have missed anything.

“Polyjuice or Glamour - the description fit a regular of the Leaky Cauldron, Stepan Brockturtle. He was sleeping most of that day, after a night of heavy drinking.” Alastor sat down with a grunt, and stretched his artificial leg out, rubbing his knee.

“Imperius?” Again, unlikely, but he had to ask.

“No trace of it in his memories. No sign of them being tampered with either. Whoever is doing this is careful, or very good.” Grudging respect shone through his friend’s words.

“Or both.” One had to prepare for the worst, after all.

“Or both,” Alastor agreed. “What were the owls carrying?”

“Poison, acid, a cursed item or two, and a peruvian chameleon viper.” Rubeus had been quite angry at such a rare animal being killed by this attack, no matter that this particular snake could turn close to invisible and had some of the deadliest poisons known to wizardkind. Dumbledore was sure having skin the fangs of most snakes could not penetrate was a factor there.

Alastor whistled. His artificial eye kept spinning, of course, looking every which way, even behind the retired Auror. “That’s a rare snake. Not many have seen one, fewer still would know how to get one.”

“Yes.”

“Which means it’s a false trail,” Alastor stated with conviction, then gestured, and Albus’s enchanted Fire Whiskey bottle floated over to his friend. The headmaster’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise, then settled again when Alastor made no move to pour himself a drink, but ran a series of spells over the bottle before sending it back.

“It could be overconfidence. Those animals are so rare, it has to have left a trail.” Albus didn’t comment on his friend’s eccentricities. They might save the life of his students, or his own, one day.

“Yes. But our foe doesn’t strike me as the overconfident type who’d make such a blunder. Maybe he wants us to investigate, as a diversion. Hagrid would be the expert for such animals, and he has discovered one attack already.” Alastor shrugged.

“Rubeus is also not an expert for such an investigation.” Albus flicked his right index finger, and a lemon drop appeared in his hand, then was deposited in his mouth. Fawkes trilled, and another flick summoned some grapes which floated around the phoenix, who took delight in snapping them up one after the other.

“But our enemy might hope he’d get called in as a consultant, or cover, for the investigation.”

“You do not really believe that though.” Albus looked over his reading glasses at his friend.

“No.” Alastor took a sip from his ever-present flask before continuing. “Owls are easily stopped by wards and other spells, even more easily if they are carrying enchanted items. Everyone knows that. Otherwise they would be the weapon of choice for assassins. Our enemy would have known they’d not be able to enter the arena and get to Potter. And what they were carrying, again, couldn’t have been powerful enough to get through the arena wards even when dropped right on them.”

Or splattered against them, together with the innards of the animals carrying them, Albus thought. He nodded, silently inviting his friend to go on.

“So, this smells like a distraction. A distraction with another distraction. Or as a distraction. We are missing something.” Alastor scowled, a quite fearsome sight with his maimed nose. Most wizards would cover it up with a glamour in his place, but Albus knew his friend took some warped pleasure in the effect his appearance had on the young and inexperienced, like students or fresh Aurors.

“I agree. I am quite sure this is a distraction, but for what?” The Headmaster sighed.

“Maybe the whole attack on the tournament is a distraction.”

Albus nodded. That was what he feared as well. For someone to go to such lengths, just to distract - him, who else? - meant there was something very important, very dangerous going on. “But if it is, I am still ignorant what it could be a distraction for. But even if it is there is not much we can do - we cannot risk lowering our guard, or neglecting the security of the tournament.” They had to remain ever vigilant. And as warped as it sounded, they had to hope that young Harry’s death was the goal of their mysterious foe, and not a distraction.

“You’ve called the others though.” A statement, not a question. Alastor knew him well.

“I did.” Alerting the Ministry would do more harm than good, Albus knew. If nothing happened, his reputation and influence would be reduced. But his old friends would not think less of him for a warning that might turn out to be too hasty, or some task that might turn out to be unneeded. They would think less of him if he did not alert them in circumstances such as those they presently found themselves in.

“Good. Should recruit some fresh blood too,” his friend said.

“I have a few people in mind already. But I think it might be better to wait until we know more, before approaching people we have not worked with already.” People who had not worked with them already, hadn’t fought at their side, and hadn’t bled with them. The old Headmaster truly hoped this was just an attempt on Harry’s life, and not something worse.

*****

Harry Potter enjoyed the week after the third task. And not just because he was in the lead of the tournament before the last task, no matter how narrow a lead it might be, or because he was often approached by students wishing him well. Less than after his victory in the second task, but noticeably more than after the first task. Some of them even might be honest, Hermione had commented in private. She was not being fair, of course - Hogwarts students wanted their school to win. But she was a bit on edge, and Harry didn’t know why. He was safe, no longer hurt, and he didn’t blame her for her spells shortcomings. And he had told her not to blame herself. Not that she’d listen, much. But it seemed to be more than that.

Briefly he considered asking Susan, who was walking with them to dinner after an afternoon spent in the library, doing homework, for advice, but decided against it. This was between him and his retainer. A private matter. Besides, he’d have ample opportunities to find out what was bothering Hermione, since he no longer needed to spend so much time in the air, training. The next and last task would be taking place on the ground. Or in the ground.

Hermione’s laughter made him glance over his shoulder at her. Judging from the smile on Luna’s face, she was the source of the sudden improvement of his retainer’s mood. Harry didn’t know why that didn’t make him as happy as it should.

*****

“I ‘ave to ‘and it to you, ‘arry, and to you, Viktor, that was some very nice flying. For someone not used to racing, you and Viktor acquitted yourself well.” Fleur’s smile took the sting out of the backhanded compliment, well, mostly. She was still smirking. “Though I am curious about the new spell of yours, ‘ermione. It didn’t seem to be as effective as your spell for the second task.”

Hermione Granger masked her frown by taking another sip from her glass. Harry had told her she should not blame herself, but she knew she could have done better, with just a bit more effort. “It was simply a spell that provided a more aerodynamically shaped shield for the caster and his broom.” It also reduced friction further, but apparently not enough. “What worked in the water wouldn’t have worked in the air.” Hermione didn’t even try to explain the differences. She wasn’t certain Harry had fully understood the principles involved, and he had studied anything related to flying ever since he first got on a broom, back in their first year. Well, after she had pointed him towards such books, and hinted at them helping him with Quidditch. She suppressed the brief spark of anger that thinking of that stupid sport created.

“Ah!” Fleur nodded, as if she understood physics. The Veela probably thought it was related to the elements. Well, she wouldn’t be that wrong, simply not correct.

“It certainly worked well enough to allow him to beat me,” Viktor threw in, raising his butterbeer bottle at her with a nod. Hermione nodded back, oddly proud of the recognition - Viktor was a world-class seeker after all.

“That, and ‘arry’s crazy stunts. I’ve known racers like that, but they tend to crash a lot. And sometimes crash others.” Fleur’s smile had stayed, but her tone had shifted towards more serious. Hermione nodded in agreement, and under their twin glares, even Harry seemed to cave. A bit. But that probably was just his dislike of hurting others - he seemed fine with risking his own health, the idiot.

Hermione waved her wand and summoned the snack tray to her, busying herself with checking the selection in case some food needed to be restocked to hide her exasperation. Judging by the hand on her shoulder and the brief apologetic smile when she sat back down again next to Harry, he had noticed anyway.

After that the group finally switched from discussing suicidal flying and racing to more comfortable - at least for her - topics.

“It is a bit vexing that whenever I think I ‘ave adapted to the British culture, I quickly find out I ‘aven’t,” Fleur commented with a slight pout.

“Oh?” Ron, who had been a bit nervous at the start - Hermione wasn’t sure why he’d be nervous - cocked his head sideways. As the only one present who was raised in Wizarding Britain, he probably was curious to see if Fleur’s experiences paralleled Hermione and Harry’s, years ago. Hermione herself surely was. Curious, that is.

“Yes. I know that in Britain, there’s only one ‘ead of Family per family. Unlike France, where the duties are split between the parents. It might explain why you ‘ave far more smaller families than we ‘ave. But at the same time, you do have sub-’eads of families as well, though, or so I understand, they are informal.”

“Sub-heads?” Hermione hadn’t heard that expression yet.

“Yes. Those who are not the ‘eads, I mean ‘ead of a family, but govern their own children.”

“Ah.” Hermione understood now. “It’s informal, yes.” It wasn’t as if the head of a pureblood family commonly took over raising children not his or her own. That was generally left to the parents, though she had heard of exceptions, where a head raised a child chosen to become the next head.

“If they ‘ave that possibility, why are so many leaving their families?” Fleur sounded honestly puzzled. Ron looked confused, as if he didn’t see the problem. Hermione was slightly lost as well.

“Being emancipated in Britain doesn’t mean you’re cast out of the family in anger,” Harry started to explain. “It’s rather normal for the children of a family without a big fortune to start their own families, but they still consider themselves related to their parents and siblings. Generally only the heads of the richest families, those with a seat in the Wizengamot, have power over more family members than their own children.”

“Ah.” Hermione understood now, as did Fleur, Viktor and Ron. Apparently, French families were more like clans, and leaving your family to strike out on their own was a rather harsh decision, akin to cutting all ties.

“I assume this is a sign of a more individualistic bent of British wizards and witches,” Fleur summed up. Hermione, who felt that British wizards were anything but individualistic outside their choice of wardrobe, wasn’t certain what that said about the French.

“Yes,” Ron agreed with the Veela.

“I assume we’d have the same difficulties when in Magical France,” Hermione threw in. To make the fishing for an invitation less obvious, she added: “I experienced some of that this summer, when I was with my parents in Burgundy.”

Fleur didn’t take the bait right then, but Hermione hadn’t expected that. To extend an invitation needed a bit more formality anyway, and would likely be done by the Veela’s parents. Probably after the last task, to avoid the appearance of improperly influencing a fellow champion.

“I for one am looking forward to the last task.” Viktor changed the topic again. “With the standings so close, it will come down to who’s getting through the task best there.” It was left unsaid that the Bulgarian wizard expected himself to be the victor. Judging by the smiles on the faces of Fleur and Harry when they agreed with him, each champion thought the same - of her- or himself. Hermione almost sighed.

*****

Harry Potter was back at Grimmauld Place for the holiday in the middle of April. Like with other holidays, as Hermione had explained in detail to him, the wizards had gone back to the pagan roots after the Statute of Secrecy had gone into effect, and what had been Easter break was now named after Eostra, an old goddess of the dawn. He still thought of it as ‘Easter break’, and Hermione probably did the same.

His retainer wasn’t there though, but had gone to her parents. Harry didn’t like that. It was selfish, but he wanted her to be with him. He was her Patron, she was his retainer. He sighed, blaming the Patron Oath for it. She’d visit often, at least.

Hermione wouldn’t be the only visitor. Ron would swing by - anything to escape the Burrow, his friend would claim, though both would know he wasn’t serious. And Susan had arranged for a visit with her aunt, later.

And Nymphadora was visiting right now. Wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt, she had been badgering him with questions about muggle culture for an hour. Not that he minded talking to her, or about muggle culture, but… the metamorphmagus was as bad as Hermione on a roll when she got enthusiastic. Harry really wished his best friend was here, to take the brunt of the questions. She would know the differences between those rather obscure works Nymphadora was mentioning. Harry could handle Star Wars and Star Trek, and Dr. Who, but who had ever heard of ‘Raumpatrouille Orion’? Or ‘Valérian’? Or ‘Le Vagabond des Limbes’?

“You don’t know really anything about muggle culture, do you? It seems I know more than you do!” Nymphadora was frowning at him, pouting with disappointment.

“I do know muggle culture! I was raised by muggles! You’re simply asking about the most obscure things! French even!” Harry was indignant. He had been raised in the muggle world, he knew what it was. The idea that a pureblood witch would know more than him about it was ludicrous.

“Those are not obscure. They’re mainstream. Hermione would know what I am asking about!” Nymphadora huffed at him.

“Yeah, but I am not… wait a minute.” Harry narrowed his eyes. Where could Nymphadora, completely new to muggle culture, have heard of so many foreign works? There was one source, but why would she… “You talked to her already!”

Loud laughter was his answer, and he groaned, letting his head drop on the kitchen table they were sitting at. At least Sirius had not … more laughter coming from the door ended that hope. “What have I done to deserve this?”

“It might be more what you haven’t done, Harry.” Sirius clapped him on the back while he summoned a scone for himself from the tray Kreacher had provided for ‘the Metamorphmagus and Master's Godson’.

“Don’t start about that again, Sirius. I am not even 15 yet.”

“Well, I started at…” whatever tale Sirius had been about to tell, or spin, was silenced by the scone in his hand suddenly filling his mouth, effectively gagging him.

“Now, now… no corrupting the youth when I am around. You can do that when I am not here.” Nymphadora was laughing while wagging her finger at Harry’s godfather. “Besides, I have another question. I bought a few muggle devices since I visited Hermione, and I need an expert to explain them to me.”

Harry leaped at the distraction. Anything but another lecture why shagging was good for you. “Of course. What did you buy?”

Nymphadora reached into one of the enchanted pockets on her robe, and handed him a small bag. “Can you show me how to use these?”

“Of course.” Harry opened the bag, and stared at a pack of rubbers, then at the earnest eyes of the metamorphmagus, until she and Sirius broke down laughing again. Bouncing the bag off her face only resulted in her laughing louder.

Harry retreated to the library. Blacks were all maniacs, he had decided long ago. Hopefully his own Black blood was diluted enough to keep him sane. Then he started plotting his vengeance.

*****

The week dedicated to Eostra was the perfect time to choose the sacrifice needed for his master’s plans, Barty Crouch thought. A new dawn for Britain would be heralded by it, after all. Things were progressing according to schedule. He had all the ingredients needed for the ritual as well as the tools prepared. But he needed a sacrifice. A powerful one.

He was sitting in Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, appearing to read the Daily Prophet, which incidentally had not covered the attack by the owls on the third task at all. In reality he was looking for a family with young children. A child would be the perfect sacrifice to restore his master. Innocent, and young, teeming with life and magic.

Dabblers in the Dark Arts, ignorant fools, assumed innocence meant a virgin. That wasn’t true. One could be a virgin and yet far from being innocent. Barty had been proof of that himself, if not for long. He had enjoyed his Year of Discovery, after all. No, innocent meant untainted. A soul that had never used magic with ill intent. And given the leanings of young people, and the practises at Hogwarts, Barty was sure only a child that had not yet received their wand was likely to fit the bill. Given accidental magic, a baby would be best. Just to be sure. Though sacrificing a toddler to restore what a toddler had robbed his master of would provide a large symbolic boost to the ritual as well.

It had to be a pureblood child, of course. To have the Dark Lord restored with tainted blood… he shuddered at the thought and ordered another bowl of Fortescue’s Famous Selection, which quickly floated towards his table. He sighed with delight at the taste - that wizard really was as good as his reputation claimed. While he was enjoying the second scoop, he noticed that a family fitting all his needs had just entered the ice cream parlor. Young wizard, young witch, a baby in her arms, a toddler next to them in a floater. A flick of his wand had him listen in to Fortescue’s greeting. So those were the Cattermole-Brandons. Not rich, judging by the quality of their robes, or the lack of it, but solid incomes. So, likely freshly emancipated. Their house wouldn’t be secured by the powerful wards on the homes of older families. Perfect.

As luck - or providence - had it, the family chose the table next to his. Still in the guise of a jovial if slightly rotund wizard, he smiled at them. “Ah… showing the kids where they’ll spend most of their allowance once they’re a bit older?”

The Cattermole-Brandons laughed at his weak joke. “Oh, we’re here for us, we just love ice cream. Though I am sure our children inherited the taste for it from us as well,” the man explained while using his wand to pull out the chair for his wife.

She smiled while she sat down and adjusted the baby on her arm. “We met here for the first time, as kids. And it was where we had our first date as well. And where he proposed. Its tied to so many happy moments in our lives…”

“And Fortescue’s does make the best ice cream.” Barty nodded with a broad smile while he silently tagged them with tracking charms. “What are their names?”

“Mykew and Delia,” the proud mother answered.

“Beautiful names.” Barty nodded, and returned his attention to his newspaper. Once he had finished his own bowl, he sent a galleon over to Fortescue, and left the parlour. He’d check the home of the Cattermole-Brandons and the wards protecting it later. He had a few shops to visit as well, and runes to prepare. After all, the last task was coming up soon, and he had a surprise to prepare. It was a long shot, but given what he knew about the security of the tournament, and the work ethics - or lack thereof - of the Ministry department in charge of organizing it, it was entirely possible the Dark Lord would be restored to a country that had just lost their boy hero.

*****

Hermione Granger snickered, reading Nymphadora’s letter. Her mother, sitting across from her on the couch and reading the Times, looked up.

“Harry fell for the prank, mum,” Hermione explained.

“The one you and Miss Black-Tonks planned?”

“Exactly. She had him going for an hour until he wised up.” Hermione giggled at the thought.

“And you had her prepare for it for hours. And made her buy those obscure novels and comics you had her ask Harry about.” There was a slight, tiny hint of disapproval in her mother’s voice.

“She wanted to know about more than just mainstream culture,” Hermione defended herself.

“After you had explained what mainstream was. In a slightly biased way, if I may remark.”

“Well… I like to think of it as getting back at her for a prank of hers.” Hermione smiled. It hadn’t actually been a prank, but a remark about Sirius’s prank at Yuletide. The young witch didn’t want to explain the details to her parents though. She didn’t want them picturing Harry having their daughter literally leashed. They didn’t know exactly how much power Harry had over her. Back when he had become her Patron, she had not explained the Patron Oath, nor all of the legal consequences. They still had no idea that as far the Wizarding World was concerned, the Grangers had lost custody of their daughter years ago.

Her parents had remarked a few times that Hermione was ready to drop anything when Harry called. Fortunately they attributed it to a crush, or maybe a fancy, and not to magical compulsion. But it was a can of worms best avoided. Explaining the Year of Discovery, even without going into details, would be bad enough. Sirius’s fondness of sexual innuendo, especially aimed at her and Harry, would not help at all.

Fortunately, the exonerated wizard was wary of spending too much time with the Grangers, or pushing the boundaries of decency in his usual way, after Hermione had explained - sort of - what exactly her parents did for a living. If she had emphasized and illustrated the drilling part, and neglected to mention the pain killers, well… she counted it as a prank as well.

She briefly closed her eyes. Sirius was really corrupting her. In more ways than that, judging by some dreams she had had. She pushed the thoughts away. She wanted to enjoy her time with her family. Today, and especially tomorrow, when she’d visit Harry.

*****

“My aunt almost didn’t want to let me visit you, Harry.”

Harry stopped walking, and turned towards Susan Bones, whom he was presently giving a tour through Grimmauld Place 12. He couldn’t fathom the reasons for that. Did Amelia Bones still suspect Sirius had been guilty? Or did she not trust Harry with her niece? Did she think he was following in Sirius’ footsteps? She knew him from their time at Hogwarts, after all. “Ah, why?” he managed to ask.

“She was worried about the amount of cursed items your godfather had handed over to the DMLE for safe disposal after he moved in.” Susan grinned. “She seemed to suspect that was only half of all the cursed items Mister Black had found.”

Harry smiled, if a bit weakly - he knew Sirius had not handed over even close to everything they had found, even if the truly dangerous but potentially useful items, as Sirius had called them, were now stored in a vault in the cellar. “It’s safe now. I’d never invite guests otherwise, trust me.” Hermione had been there with him, he thought with a small amount of guilt, at the start even, but he told himself that he’d never have managed to keep her away.

“That’s what I told auntie, Harry.” Susan smiled at him, then hooked her arm around his. “Now, lead on - I am curious how the famous Harry Potter lives!” She grinned, making it clear that she was joking. Susan didn’t act as if she was overly impressed with his reputation, or fame, something he was very happy about. As much as Hermione and he had been working on building up his reputation, fame and money over the years, Harry wasn’t happy with the effect that had on many of his supposed peers. Dealing with sycophants and what Hermione had dubbed ‘fawning fangirls’ was often tiresome, especially since he had to remain polite, to avoid giving offense or hurting someone’s feelings.

Susan though was different. And, even better, given her situation as the chosen successor of her aunt as head of the family, the possibility of a future marriage was not present. Unlike in the case of say, Ginny, Ron’s baby sister. Ron had made jokes about becoming his brother in law, but Harry hadn’t found them that funny. He didn’t want to think about marriage when he wasn’t even 15 years old! Hermione had agreed with him when they had discussed that in private. That was why she had proposed he ask Susan to the Yule Ball, of course.

And she had been right. With Susan Harry didn’t feel tense, or even awkward. Unless of course her aunt was present - Madam Bones was a very impressive witch. Sirius called her scary.

“And this is my room.” Harry opened the door to his room with an exaggerated gesture, as if presenting a treasure vault. Susan giggled, and made a show of carefully stepping inside, as if she was suspecting a trap.

“Hm… where’s Hermione’s bed?” The redhead was looking around, then cocked her head at Harry’s admittedly oversized canopy bed. “Hmmm.”

“She doesn’t sleep with me! I mean, she doesn’t sleep in my room.” He would not want her to sleep in his room either, some - disturbing - dreams notwithstanding.

Susan giggled, then patted his shoulder. “I know, Harry. But I had to ask, or Hannah would never forgive me.” She stepped over to his desk, looking at the muggle writing utensils laid out there with unveiled curiosity. “Besides, as traditional as you two are, even I wasn’t sure you’d not have chosen the traditional sleeping arrangements for a Patron and their retainer.”

Harry stared at her. He was quite aware of what those arrangements were, Sirius had taken pleasure in telling him all about them. And their deranged elf had even asked if he wanted his room rearranged ‘to keep Master’s Godson’s Slave’. Harry hadn’t wanted to know what Kreacher had meant with that, and still didn’t want to know. Susan giggled again. The witch had a sense of humour that would serve her well with Sirius and Nymphadora, though hers was quite a bit more refined in comparison to those two. And, well, more gentle too.

He was still quite relieved when Susan stopped the teasing and asked about the pen and paper he had on his desk. He picked up the fountain pen and showed it to her. She reacted like most wizards - impressed in that patronizing way at what muggles managed to create without magic. But she did seem genuinely interested. He wished he could show her a computer. Maybe next time he visited the Grangers, he could ask to bring her along? She and Hermione got along well, after all.

*****

Draco Malfoy was lounging in the Slytherin common room, feeling restless. His vacation hadn’t met his expectations. He had hoped to help his father fight mudbloods and blood traitors, but nothing of the sort had happened. Instead, his father had spent the vacation at the mansion, questioning Draco about the unimportant happenings at school. Like he had done over Yuletide. back then Draco had assumed this was a punishment for using a family curse in the duelling competition, but surely that was in the past now, forgotten?

And yet his father had not even mentioned any further plans, had even told him to be silent when he had asked about the cause. And his mother had not helped him either! Draco didn’t understand why his father had become so… cautious. Not after his bold, magnificent actions at the World Cup. It was as if the Head of the Malfoy family regretted those events.

Draco had scorned that thought. His father was powerful and cunning, he’d not feel remorse for doing what needed to be done to further the Dark Lord’s cause. And his mother hadn’t found any trace of a confundus spell or compulsion charm on either of them. Who’d dare to hex his father anyway? Sighing loudly, he pushed the thoughts away. It didn’t do any good to dwell on past problems, Pansy had told him that many times. ‘Look forward, forget the past’ was sound advice indeed!

Thinking of Pansy, shouldn’t she be back already from her errand, whatever it was? Just as he was about to get up and look for his wayward girlfriend, the door to the common room opened and she stepped inside - then turned to say something to a Durmstrang student who apparently had walked her to the dorm. Draco frowned - Pansy was his girlfriend. Not that he thought anything untoward had happened, she was far too loyal for such.

“Doesn’t it look like Malfoy’s been replaced? Parkinson might have finally grown some taste.” Draco stiffened, then turned to the table next to him. The insult was spoken just loud enough to be overheard, but low enough so that to take offense, as any wizard worth his wand would, might be seen as listening to a private conversation.

Draco wasn’t just any wizard though. He addressed the speaker, a 6th year student, Wilkins, ignoring the two others with him for now. “Did you mention my name, Wilkins?” he asked, his face and tone portraying the disdain he felt for the childish insult clearly.

“Just wondering why Parkinson dumped you.” Most would have claimed to have been misheard, avoiding to give offense, it not apologizing, but apparently Wilkins was made of dumber stuff - or had forgotten his place. His family had some influence, true, and they were of the right sort. But still below the Malfoys in standing, and their coffers could not rival his father’s.

“Ah, I was wondering if I had misheard. After all, it would take a quite remarkable lack of intellect to mistake a chivalrous gesture from one our guests as a sign of a dalliance. I wouldn’t have thought it possible that such a person could be a member of our house, but apparently you just proved me wrong.” He stared haughtily at Wilkins, slightly sneering even. And with perfect timing, Pansy arrived, greeting him with a one-armed hug that, while chaste, left no doubt about their relationship.

“Draco dear, is something wrong?”

“Nothing of the sort. A simpleton let his own base nature color his perceptions.” That hit home, and Wilkins stiffened. In any other house, wands would have been drawn and a brawl would have ensued, Draco knew, but Slytherins held themselves to a higher standard.

“I feel the need for some duelling practise. Would you care to help me with that, Mister Malfoy?” Wilkins stated in a clipped tone.

“Certainly. I am always willing to help those who have not learned their lessons.” His quip made Pansy and a few more chuckle, as it should.

They stepped in the middle of the common room, into a hastily cleared ring. The 7th year prefect sighed, but activated the wards that would keep spells from hitting anyone outside the ring. Pansy was hugging him, even placed a kiss on his cheek, for luck. Not that Draco would need luck, but it was the thought that counted.

Confidently, he stepped into the ring, flashing his wand. His robes swirled around him, the enchantments picking up on his intent to fight, or so the tailor had explained. Draco hadn’t cared that much for the explanation. More important than such cosmetic spells were the protective enchantments woven into the robe - the best gold could buy, his father had assured him.

“You’re quite confident for someone who was schooled by Granger.” Wilkins sneered at him, no doubt trying to mask his deserved nervousness.

“This is not a mere competition, but a lesson in dire need of being learned.” Draco scoffed at his foe, then glanced at the prefect. The older student sighed again, but stepped up.

“Bow!” Draco merely inclined his head.

“Wands ready!”

Draco’s wand rose, until he was standing in a perfect guard position.

“Start!”

“Protego.” Draco’s first spell was a shield, and just in time to stop a hex from Wilkins. Grinning, he started to send some hexes and jinxes back. Wilkins had a shield up himself now, but Draco was confident it would not last long.

The two exchanged spells while neither even tried to dodge. Draco approved - running, or even rolling around was for mudbloods and muggles, not for true wizards who could trust their magic to protect them. Wilkins’ shield spell proved to be stronger than Draco had anticipated, but he was confident he’d get through in time. He hardly noticed when his own shield shattered. But the look on his opponent’s face when the hex he had cast, confident of his victory, was simply stopped by his protective enchantments as if it had fizzled out - Draco would treasure that for some time to come.

Then Wilkin’s own shield was overcome by Draco’s magic, after he had toyed with him long enough of course, and a Body-Binding Curse took the student down. Draco was halfway into casting a Flaying Curse on his helpless opponent before he could stop himself. This was no real combat, just a duel. He was with fellow wizards, not mudbloods and blood traitors too. So he simply cast the traditional humiliating spells for such a situation - and added a Bowel-Loosening Hex if only so he could make some barbs later about Wilkins wetting himself. Then he looked at the referee, signaling it was over.

“Winner by Incapacitation: Malfoy.”

Draco bowed, if with less than his usual grace, and stepped out of the ring, into the arms of his adoring girlfriend while the frowning prefect told Wilkins’s two friends to transport him to the Infirmary. He was filled with pride - he had just demonstrated that he was a wizard to be reckoned with, when he was not shackled by foreign competition rules and facing cheating mudbloods. That should cow those who had been nipping at his heels.

*****

Harry Potter was watching Hermione getting ready for the curse-breaking competition in their training room. His friend had complained that she had not been able to prepare properly for the competition - she had wanted to train with a few of the cursed items still locked up in Grimmauld Place. But after he had heard about the accident a Ravenclaw student had over the break, when he botched breaking a curse on an item he had apparently bought cheaply in Knockturn Alley, Harry was glad that Sirius had refused the young witch. The student was still in St. Mungo’s, after all, two weeks after the break had ended. ‘The only minor curses are those others deal with’, his godfather had said, ‘and as a Black, I would know that.’

In the competition they’d deal with harmless curses, prepared by experienced Curse-Breakers from Gringotts. Flashy but harmless. Though, seeing as Ron’s oldest brother, Bill Weasley, was among those contributing, the results of a failure to break the curse would surely be humiliating as well, if what tales the twins were telling about Bill were to be believed. Harry might even drop his planned revenge for Hermione’s and Nymphadora’s prank if his retainer was too badly affected.

Though for that to happen she’d have to fail first, and then the protective enchantments on her robe would have to fail as well. Harry didn’t think that was too likely to happen - Hermione had been preparing as obsessively as usual in such situation. Even now, so close to the start of the event, she was reading a book from a French Curse-Breaker who had worked in Egypt in the 18th Century. Harry thought finding out just how exactly that had come to pass, given the relations between Magical France and the Ottoman Empire at the time, would be more interesting than the accounts of his work, but obviously his friend disagreed.

48 students, 16 from each school, would be competing. They started with the same item and curse. The 24 fastest would reach the next round, the 12 fastest of those would enter the final round, where the fastest would win. Should the curse get triggered the student was out. Literally out, Harry had heard from older students, in the final round. He worried about his retainer. Magic was not as predictable as it should be, she had said so several times herself. And there was an unknown assassin trying to sabotage the tournament. A wizard or witch able to manipulate the Goblet of Fire surely would be able to manipulate a few cursed items.

Hermione trusted the security provided by the Headmaster, or so she claimed. The wards would prevent any items with serious curses from being smuggled inside. Harry knew that as well, but knowing, and trusting one’s knowledge, were two different things, as he was finding out. He checked his wristwatch. It was almost time to go. Acting on an impulse he stepped over and hugged his friend, who let out a surprised sound before relaxing in his arms.

“Good luck, Hermione,” he whispered near her ear.

“Thank you, Harry.” She patted his back. For a second Harry had to fight the urge to simply keep holding her until the competition was over. It would be hypocritical, given that he played Quidditch, or so Hermione would say. So she actually had said when the point was raised during their break. And that was why he released her, took a step back, and smiled encouragingly. Then the two left the room and made their way over to the tournament arena.

*****

The arena was a flat surface this time, with marked and warded - lightly, Hermione Granger knew, more to keep competitors from being disturbed by the efforts of their neighbors than to contain the minor curses on the items - spaces for the students measuring their skills in curse-breaking. She felt a bit outclassed, if she was honest with herself. While curse-breaking was an exciting intellectual exercise, and a fascinating field to study, she had been interested in it mainly because of the synergy with spell crafting, her true passion. Not that she was not good at it, or she’d not be here.

She told herself to shelve the defeatist talk and calm down. She was here to compete, not to worry. Instead she looked at the item for the first round, still behind a barrier so no one could get a headstart. It was an inkwell. Probably cursed to splatter the handler with ink, maybe indelible ink too. That would mean either a variant of Aguamenti, or a Banishing Charm, and some transfiguration, unless it simply used the ink in the well. Hermione shook her head. She was making too many assumptions, which could blind her to traps. Just because that was how she would curse didn’t mean it was cursed that way.

Then the signal to start was given, and the barriers disappeared. Hermione cast a detection spell, a Curse-Breaker’s bread and butter. It allowed her to see magical effects and spells, but only at a rather close range. And it made spotting anything further away, magical or not, nigh impossible. Those limitations had certainly cost many a Curse-Breaker his or her life. She could think of traps that would use those limits, maybe combine a curse with a more classic mechanical trap… Pushing those thoughts away, the young witch started to study the item. She barely heard the roar of the crowd, dimmed by the arena wards. Apparently, one of her competitors had been too hasty, and now was out already. Instead she focused on the spells she could see on the well. They were not too complicated, but overlapping spells on a small object were always a bit tricky, so she studied them with extra care. There was the Everfull Charm, and a Banishing Charm, as expected, coupled with a Color Charm. All entwined with each other. To remove the trap and leave the Everfull Charm would require her to… suddenly she blinked. Why would they enchant the ink with that spell? For security reasons, all items were cursed here, on location and under supervision. They wouldn’t have used an Everfull Charm… she studied the charm again, recasting her spell to make sure she got it right. Ah! Another trap! That was an Everfull Charm, but with a twist that would affect not the well, but the one touching it, or rather, their mouth. They’d be spewing ink out as a result - for quite some time.

Shaking her head, she thought about her course of action. Canceling one curse would trigger the other. She had to either remove both at the same time, or remove the links without triggering the curses. That would take time, which she might not have. Taking a deep breath, she aimed her wand at the centre of the entwined spells, visible only to her enhanced sight.

“Finite!” she shouted, stabbing her wand forward. For a moment, it looked as if the spells were resisting, absorbing her own spell, then they broke, and she saw the magic dissipate, leaving just a normal, mundane inkwell. Above her a number - 14 - flared up and started to shine. She had made it to the next round. Looking around, she saw half a dozen students being led away, most of them either covered by ink, or spitting out ink. One though was both covered and spewing ink, and another had the inkwell stuck in his mouth. She didn’t know how anyone could have managed that. She waved at the Champion’s lounge, and Harry. He was too far away from her to see his smile, but she knew he could see her as well as if he were sitting next to her, so she beamed at him, before turning back to her area.

The next item was placed behind a barrier again, a robe this time. A robe moving by itself, even. She smiled - this would be interesting. She would have to restrain the thing, to be able to study it. But using immobilizing spells on it would likely trigger the curse. She could, of course, cast a shield spell, and then study it from behind that, but that would make observation very, very difficult. A decoy might also work, but she hadn’t learned how to conjure or transfigure something that would work as a decoy for her. Yet. The protective spells on her robes were good against hexes and jinxes, probably curses as well, but they would not do much about attacks by animated cloth, or transfigured or conjured animals. She needed to upgrade them, and Harry’s, but she hadn’t had time so far.

The signal to start came as a surprise for some, judging by the muffled screams and the dimmed laughter from the audience she could hear. Hermione herself was ready, and when the robe charged at her, she met it with an Aguamenti that both stopped it for a short time and thoroughly soaked it - Harry hadn’t been the only one learning to overpower that particular spell, after all. Before the cursed garment could recover, she froze the water, and with it the robe. A simple spell, and, as she was slightly relieved to find out, not one to trigger a trap.

She cast her detection spell again and started to study the robe. While the ice would not last that long, she could recast the freezing charm, but her competitors would not be wasting time either. An interesting, and more complicated mix of spells was revealed to her eyes. A Dancing Feet charm, as she had expected. A modified Body-Binding Curse - she was wondering how many would recognize that one, she only did because she had experience in modifying spells - a Tickling Hex and a transfiguration on the robe. Too easy, she thought. There would be another trap.

“Wingardium leviosa.”

The young witch levitated the still frozen robe up, and started to slowly rotate it. Ah! That spark at the collar was not part of the transfiguration, but almost covered by it. It was a separate effect. A gag, she realised with a smirk. She knew that one - she had used it on Sirius herself, after all. But that left her with a cascading set of trapped spells. Triggering one would set the others off, and break the ice. It couldn’t be helped, she’d have to do this the hard way.

Hermione refroze the water, just to be sure, and started to note down the sequences she could make out with the help of a dictaquill - a Curse-Breaker’s best friend, she had heard people call it, and sometimes its records were the only clue to what had happened to him or her. There was a reason Curse-Breakers were so well-paid.

When she finally had the sequence down - hopefully - she wiped sweat from her brows, recast the freezing charm again, and started to finite, using her wand with as much precision as she could muster. One single sloppy flick or swish, and the spells would blow up in her face, leaving her dancing while wearing a potato bag and giggling into a gag. After the third finite she had to take a quick rest, her hand was trembling. She finished the last finite right before her ice had melted, and sank down to her knees with relief when the robe flopped to the ground, all magic gone. Over her head shone a bright “11” - she had made it into the final round, if barely.

She didn’t turn towards the champion’s lounge. Harry would be fretting, she knew that, and simply waited for the last round to start while resting. She did spot a number of dancing students in sackcloths, though. And a few wearing gags, and a furious expression.

The last item to be placed behind the barrier was a box. An ornate box, large enough to hold a head, she added, morbidly remembering some tales she had read in preparation for this competition. Not that that would mean anything, she could certainly expect expansion charms on any box. Maybe if triggered it would release a guardian creature? Or maybe it would suck the Curse-Breaker into the box? A shield was a good precaution, but not enough.

When the signal to start came and the barrier disappeared, she quickly cast a Shield Charm, then a detection spell. She followed up with a conjured rock which she transfigured into a cat, which she ordered to touch the box. As soon as the cat was about to put a paw on it, a flash went off, briefly blinding Hermione, and when she managed to see more or less clearly again, the cat had lost most of its pelt. She frowned. She might not like her bushy hair, before cosmetic charms, but she’d rather keep it than go bald. The cat had lost most of its pelt, not all - so it was not a hair-removal spell disguised in the flash, but something that really burned hair off, but weak enough not to do further harm. Almost a prank spell. She had the cat touch it again, this time squinting her eyes. Again she was blinded, but she had caught a glimpse of the spell. Another touch did not reveal any more information, so she dismissed the cat and cast a finite. Before her eyes, the box fell apart, revealing… another box, slightly smaller, and with a different design on the sides.

Another transfigured cat did not trigger any defenses, leaving her stumped for a moment. She couldn’t see any spell at work either, but… walking around the box, she couldn’t find any mechanism to open it. That would not make any sense though, a curse without the means to trigger it. Especially not for a competition. She had checked all sides but the underside… for a moment she thought about levitating it. That might trigger whatever curse it held though. Though she ordered the cat to topple it on a side.

As soon as the box started to topple, green liquid shot out from it, covering the cat and part of her shield before hardening into what looked like glue. That was some nasty little trap there. And the symbols on the box had changed, rearranging the sides so she still didn’t see the underside.

Two minutes later she had another cat ready, and constructed a grid from conjured rulers, then had the cat push the box onto the grid, which she then levitated up so she could study the underside. She was grinning - it was a challenge. And contrary to real curse-breaking work, she’d not die if she made a mistake!

On the underside she discovered a keyhole. Or rather, a wandhole, it seemed. And inside the hole she spotted a detection spell. No, two of them. One would check if a wand was inserted, the other would check if it was the right wand. If that was the standard wand-lock she read about, of course. But to find out which did what… she had a feeling that canceling both would trigger a curse, and canceling the wrong one would stop her, and trigger a curse.

She narrowed her eyes, but the spells were just too entwined, and she couldn’t see enough details. It was a coin-toss, in other words. Hermione didn’t like such odds. But then, it was just a competition. Taking a deep breath, she started to finite the right one, hoping it was the right one. She almost ruined her casting, giggling nervously at her own joke. No curse went off, so she stuck her and into the hole, and - to her considerate relief this time - the box fell apart, revealing another box. Shiny, golden, and ornate this time.

Just as she was about to send in another testing cat, she heard an excited announcement: “And Anton Iliev broke the last curse! Anton Iliev won!”

She had not expected to win, but she was still disappointed. She was more disappointed that she would not get to solve the box curse puzzle though, and glared at the box while getting up, applauding a beaming Bulgarian student who made his way to the judges’ area. She also saw there were just about half the of the original dozen finalists left, and a number of blackened spots where competitors had been working indicated they had not gone quietly, so to speak.

This time she did turn towards the Champion’s lounge again, waving. She had given her best, and hadn’t gotten hurt. In this tournament, that counted for something.

*****


	10. The Fourth Task: Earth

**Chapter 10: The Fourth Task: Earth**

Hermione Granger and the other still standing competitors watched while Anton Iliev received the winner’s reward - a purse filled with galleons, traditionally cursed as well, and an invitation to spend a month at the main curse-breaking camp Gringotts ran in Egypt, where he would be studying the work done there. After another round of applause in response to the Bulgarian’s words of thanks Hermione was finally free to mingle with her friends and family.

She smiled as she spotted Harry walking towards her, but before he reached her, she was almost bowled over by an enthusiastic blonde witch who hugged her. “Hermione! That was great! Seeing you fight a cursed robe was so exciting - do you think it was jealous that you did not enchant it with the spells you know?”

“Huh?” Hermione was caught off-guard in more ways than one, having stumbled when Luna had all but tackled her, and understanding her friend took a bit of an effort even without having focused on curses for so long. “I don’t think so. It’s not as if it was alive.”

“Aw. But maybe the right spells would have placated it anyway. Or made it come alive. That’s how Lethifolds were created, you know.” Luna released her just in time for a smirking Harry and a smiling Aicha to arrive, and put a finger on her nose, pondering a second. “Maybe it was a good thing you didn’t.” She nodded sagely, but with a smile that made it impossible to tell if she was serious or not. Though Hermione couldn’t help but think about what kind of spells she knew that could have countered the curse on the enchanted robe. Maybe a variant of the floating garment charm would have prevented it from latching onto her? And if it had been transfigured into an animal, would that have broken the curse?

Harry’s cough broke her train of thoughts, and she hastily bowed to him - they were in public. “My Patron.”

“My Wand.” He was smirking still.

Luna was craning her neck and patting Hermione’s back, to check if she had caught any curses, or so the blonde claimed. “That was impressive, Hermione. You made the final round.”

Hermione beamed, happily. “With some luck. I almost was too slow in the second round.”

“You didn’t get hurt, and that’s the most important thing.” Luna rapidly nodded several times at her own words.

“Luna’s right. For a Curse-Breaker, how fast you are at breaking curses matters much less than how good you are it. Speed only matters for counter-curses, though from what I saw, you are quick on your feet.”

Hermione turned towards the man who had just spoken, and her eyes widened. He was impressive. Tall, but not lanky, red hair, long, tied back in a ponytail, battered looking robes that nevertheless were bristling with protective enchantments, if she interpreted the sigils on them correctly, and cut in a way to allow him as much freedom of movement as possible, while still covering his body from neck to dragonhide boots. A roguish grin on his handsome face, and a fang dangling from an ear. Impressive and attractive, she noted. Then she noted Ron standing next to him, rolling his eyes, as well as Ginny, and she spotted the resemblance.

“You must be William Weasley.” Normally it would have been a faux-pas to address him before Harry had done so, but he had addressed her first.

“You’re as sharp as Ron and Harry told me. Call me Bill.” He offered his hand, and when Hermione reached out to shake it - refusing that would have been a clear offense - he turned it into a kiss on her hand. She couldn’t help but blush. Tall, handsome, skilled - former head boy - and charming.

“William Weasley.” Harry’s greeting was a tad more formal than Hermione would have expected; they had met before after all.

“Harry Potter.” Bill returned the greeting with the exact same amount of formality, but clear amusement visible in his eyes. Hermione felt a sudden if slight annoyance at his attitude towards her Patron. Harry may have been just 14 years old, but he was the head of his family, and a Triwizard Tournament champion, and her Patron. “Your retainer gave an excellent showing in the competition. Truly impressive, especially given how much older the vast majority of her competitors were. You must be very proud of her.” With proper decorum and respect shown - Bill was smooth - Hermione’s annoyance was replaced by pride again.

“I am.” Harry stepped a bit closer to Hermione. “Though she truly excels in spellcrafting.”

Whatever Bill had been about to answer was cut short by Luna jumping into his arms. “Bill! Have you shrunk? You look and feel smaller than last time we saw each other!”

“Luna! That’s because you have grown.” Bill laughed, and twirled her around once, then set her down. She promptly started to poke him, claiming to check if he had still all parts. For a moment Hermione was jealous, then she laughed with the rest of the group. Luna introduced Aicha as well, who bowed to Bill, and her genie, who flitted around the wizard and tried to grab the fang dangling from his ear.

“I do hope you liked the last round, some of my finest work, if I do say so myself. How far did you get there?” Bill turned to her again, ignoring the blonde witch trying to look into his pockets.

“I reached the third box, the shiny golden one.” The slightly pranking impression she had gotten from the boxes made sense, she realised.

“Ah. An interesting one. How did you get through the earlier ones?” He grinned at her.

Hermione ignored the way everyone but Luna and Bill frowned a bit, and started to explain what she had done.

*****

Harry Potter didn’t really like Bill Weasley at the moment. Not at all, if he was honest. The too-handsome, too-smooth Curse-Breaker was monopolizing Hermione’s attention. She was Harry’s friend, and his retainer. It was rather rude of an outsider to butt in when he had wanted to talk with her about the competition. Even if he didn’t know as much about curse-breaking as the red-headed rake did, he knew far more about his friend. And Ron and Ginny were doing nothing! Didn’t Ginny care that Bill was ignoring her? Harry knew she idolized her oldest brother, and had been very sad that Bill had chosen a career outside Britain. He glanced at her, trying to convey his annoyance with the situation, but when their eyes met, she simply smiled widely at him. Traitor.

Ron wasn’t doing anything either, but at least he was glaring at his brother. And Luna… well, she wouldn’t see the problem. And Aicha had no stake in this. Harry tried to tell himself that he should be glad Hermione was having fun talking about curse-breaking, but it was not working. He really wanted Bill doing anything but talking to Hermione right now.

Then he spotted a solution, of sorts. “Have you met my fellow champions yet, Bill?” Harry interrupted a far too interesting tale about a particularly dangerous trap in some old tomb that made Bill appear both modest and impressive, and pointed to Viktor and Fleur.

“No, I haven’t yet have the pleasure…” Bill turned towards the direction Harry was pointing at, and his eyes widened when he spotted Fleur. Perfect.

“Let me introduce you then.” Harry ignored the glare Hermione was sending him, and the guilt at ruining her fun, while he led the eldest of the Weasley sons over to meet the French Veela. And the Bulgarian wizard too. “Viktor, Fleur? May I introduce Bill Weasley? He is a Curse-Breaker from Gringotts, and was responsible for the final challenge of this competition.”

Bill was as smooth greeting Fleur as he had been when he met Hermione, no even smoother. The two seemed to hit it off, even. Harry smiled, satisfied. When he turned to Hermione he realised everyone but Luna and Aicha, who were both smirking, and Viktor, who was politely listening, was frowning at him. What had he done now?

*****

Draco was still sulking about Granger not getting cursed during the competition. Pansy Parkinson could have told him Granger was playing it safe and not taking risks, but he wouldn’t have listened anyway. At least it meant he was not talking too much, and most of what he was saying could be safely ignored. That at least had not changed. Other things though, had. Draco’s recent victory in that ‘duelling lesson’ had increased his standing among those who had not realised that his enchanted robes had made him win, not his skill.

Fools, Pansy thought. On the other hand, outside a duelling tournament, only a fool would dismiss such protective enchantments when assessing an opponent. And any Slytherin worth his or her salt knew that the only competition that counted was the one outside the tournaments and their rules.

Draco, with her on his arm and his two ‘friends’ following them, made his way through the crowd after the competition. By now all of those who had failed to deal with the curses had returned from the Infirmary - with such set-pieces, removing a curse was easy for the healers since they knew the exact spells and their counterspells in advance.

She nodded to Tanya Ricklebern, one of the Slytherins who had taken part in the competition. “Well done, Miss Ricklebern. Reaching the second round is quite the achievement.”

Pansy smiled sweetly. She almost meant it - Ricklebern was a fifth year, and even counting the fact that most Slytherins from old families had at least some experience with curses by the time they recovered from their first visit to the family home’s attic or cellar, it was impressive. Would have been, if not for Granger, of course. Judging by the slightly forced smile when Ricklebern thanked her for the compliment, the other witch knew it as well. Outdone by a 4th year mudblood, and one who did not really focus on curse-breaking… Pansy felt like shaking her head. Though in a twisted way she was glad for that as well - Granger showing up older students made her showing up Pansy and the others in her year more tolerable. In their first year, the older students of their House had scorned Pansy and her year mates for doing worse in class than the mudblood. That had stopped once Granger started showing up the older students as well.

Draco of course couldn’t help speaking his mind. “Half the students reached the second round. Some families might accept mediocrity, but who would consider it an achievement to do as well as half the crowd?” Pansy felt like hexing him.

Putting on her best vapid smile, she answered as if she had not understood that Draco had meant to ask a rhetorical question. “She was only two places behind Granger in the first round.” That shut Draco up, and made Ricklebern smile more honestly.

Unfortunately, it also made Draco complain about Granger again. “To think that that mudblood progressed so far. Truly, things have only gotten worse in the last decade. It is high time someone does something about this before Britain completes its slide into barbarism.” He glared at the floating tray with drinks and finger food as if it was the cause of it.

Pansy was more than a bit disturbed hearing him talk like this. He was doing this more and more frequently. Usually she’d not care much, Draco loved to talk, but at the end of that duel, Draco had been about to cast something, but had stopped. And while he had told her all the spells he had cast, in detail, multiple times, he had never mentioned what that spell would have been. Not even an offhand remark about how he had graciously spared his opponent further humiliation or pain, or something like that. Pansy didn’t know what spell Draco had planned to cast, but she knew she didn’t like the implications of her ‘boyfriend’ not boasting about it.

*****

The evening of the day of the Curse-Breaking Competition saw another concert in the arena, this time with the Weird Sisters. Hermione knew they were an up and coming band of witches, though how much of that was due to their talent, and how much was due to lack of competition was hard to say. They were not bad, she knew that from listening to them on the Wizarding Wireless - Lavender was a big fan - but also quite eccentric. For an entire year they had exclusively performed while polyjuiced into wizards.

The arena would be packed, especially the flat part where the audience could dance. Due to the strict security measures, it would take a long time until everyone was inside the arena, but since Harry was a Champion, and a target, he and his friends could enter right away - standing outside in the middle of a crowd was deemed to be too dangerous for Harry, and for anyone around him. One good thing in this mess, Hermione thought.

Though it also meant they had a long time to spend waiting, but at least it was with snacks and drinks, and in the semi-privacy of the Champion’s Lounge. Semi-private since while it was reserved for the Champions and their friends and families, acquaintances of course could visit, if only for a short time without being rude. In Hermione’s opinion Daphne Greengrass had crossed the line into being rude just by entering. It wasn’t as if she was on friendly terms with anyone inside. Throwing that into her face, much less throwing her out, would have been a faux-pas though. Feuds had been started over less.

Hermione still had to fight not to audibly groan when the blonde idiot started to flirt with Harry. Or attempted to. “I have to say, Mister Potter, your retainer’s performance exceeded all expectations. You’ve done so well as her Patron, it’s unbelievable.”

Hermione tensed up - what was unbelievable? It wasn’t as if Harry had taught her curse-breaking! - when she felt a hand on her back. Harry was slightly to the front of her so… a glance confirmed that it was Luna, smiling at her.

“Try the dirigible plums? They are so sweet, they’ll float into your mouth.” The blonde witch pushed a few floating fruits at her. Hermione opened her mouth to politely decline, and found one of them on her tongue before she could utter a word. They were very sweet, at least, and Luna looked happy.

The plums had distracted her though, so she had apparently missed Greengrass leaving. Susan was standing close to Harry and smirking at the Slytherin’s back, so she probably had sent her away. Hermione was not as happy about that as she should have been.

A bit away, Fleur was talking to Bill, as she had done since the two had met hours ago, when Harry had so rudely broken into a most fascinating discussion of curse-breaking. Though talking was the wrong word. Hermione was not even sure if the two were still flirting, or if Fleur had started to court the wizard, as French witches and wizards did when looking for an affair, or more. Hermione was not too experienced in such matters; the books she had read were notoriously vague on the finer points of romance and courtship.

Maybe she should try some French books? Lavender had offered to let her read some of hers, but those were the magical versions of steamy romance novels, with asinine plots and characters. And the one the other witch had put into her hands, ‘In the Sultan’s Harem’, had not looked like it would contain any useful information about the customs of western european countries. So she had handed it back, but not after changing the hair color of the slave girl on the cover from a chestnut brown that looked suspiciously like her own hair color when she used her favorite styling charm into a color that exactly matched Lavender’s locks. If the witch wanted to get back at her for the Yule Ball she had to try harder.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous.” What? Luna was grinning at her.

“Who would I be jealous of?” Hermione retorted.

“That’s a good question, Hermione. When you find out, tell me?”

Hermione covered her lack of response up by fetching another drink and a snack. She knew she didn’t like it when a girl got too close to Harry, but that was the Patron Oath influencing her, making her afraid of getting replaced as his closest friend.

*****

“So, what is this I hear about Malfoy being skilled now?” Ron was sitting in the unused classroom they had taken over as a training room, and checked how much was left in his bottle of butterbeer by holding it up against one of the lights hovering near the ceiling. Harry Potter summoned one for himself. He couldn’t stand pumpkin juice, but butterbeer was good.

“Rumor is - and I heard this from Parvati, mind you, so it went through a few students already - that he won against a 6th year Slytherin student in one of their duels they pass off as ‘studying’ or ‘training’. Won without trouble, even,” Hermione explained without looking up from the book on magic plants she was reading. She was making notes about potential obstacles in the last task. For him.

“Any details on how he managed that?” Harry frowned. Malfoy was an idiot. A rich idiot, but an idiot nevertheless. He shouldn’t be able to best a student two years his senior, unless that student was an idiot as well. Granted, there was no shortage of those in the school. “And who did he beat?”

“Wilkins.” Hermione was still not looking up, but this made Ron pay more attention.

“Wilkins is not half-bad. For a Slytherin.” Harry’s friend emptied his bottle. “I’ve seen him duelling before. Malfoy is worse.”

“That might have changed. Or Malfoy got lucky.”

“That’s always a possibility. But I think the rumors would not be spreading that much if it had just been luck.” Hermione closed her book, finally paying attention.

“What else would it be? Robes do not make that much of a difference.” Ron summoned a sandwich, which he kept floating in front of his mouth, taking a bite out of it without using his hands. Harry grinned at the sight - his friend would never dare doing that at the Burrow.

“Most robes do not. But if you spend enough money, you can buy some really good protection. Especially against the sort of spells people use in duels where they do not want to kill their opponent. I’ve been looking into that, in order to work on duplicating it.” Hermione frowned at Ron’s display, and summoned a glass and a pitcher of water for herself.

“Merlin’s balls, just what we needed - Malfoy’s money mattering even more.” Ron added a few more colorful curses under his breath.

Harry was tempted to do the same, but Hermione would not appreciate that. She was still a bit miffed about his handling of the ‘Bill intrusion’, as he liked to think of it. Harry had asked Sirius for the latest book on curse-breaking, to mollify his retainer. Expensive, but then, she was worth it. And not just because she was likely to use her knowledge to save him.

“I can probably match or exceed whatever protections he has on his robes over the summer, unless his father hired one of the enchanters doing custom work,” Hermione said. Case in point, Harry thought.

“And if he has hired one of those?” Ron asked.

“Then I’ll surpass it next year.” Hermione smirked confidently.

“So, we need to take that into account when we train. Spells that bypass, ignore or go through protective spells.” Ron looked at Hermione. As expected, she nodded.

“I’ve made a list of such enchantments to help improve our own protections.” She dug in her mokeskin pocket, and pulled out a sheet of parchment. “The general tactic is to either overload them, which breaks them, temporarily disable them, or use spells that ignore them.”

No one mentioned the Unforgivables, but Harry was sure every one of them thought about them.

“The thing is, there are limits for all protection spells. They don’t work that well with each other, and some need quite the fine-tuning to help more than hinder. Otherwise your spell will stop a bludger from knocking you over, but also slow you down when you want to drop to the floor to dodge a spell,” His friend explained while pushing a lock of hair back behind her ear in a very distracting manner.

“So, if we play it right we can arrange it so that Malfoy gets defeated by his own robe?” Ron was grinning broadly. Harry had to agree, this was a most promising possibility.

“If we play it right we’ll not fight him at all.” Hermione of course had to spoil their fun. “We’ve got more important things to worry about than Malfoy.”

That Harry had to agree with. The last task was coming up. He’d be facing Earth-themed foes - plants, burrowers, elementals - and traps of all kinds, in a cave or underground labyrinth. And he had barely more than a month and a half left to prepare. Hermione hadn’t been able to think of a spell she could craft to help him there, but she had found plenty of spells he could learn.

*****

“No.” Hermione Granger stated firmly. She would not give in. No matter what.

“But Hermione! It would fit you perfectly!” No matter how much Luna whined and begged. “Look!” Luna held up the latest spring robe she had picked out in the shop in Hogsmeade. ‘Spring robe’ was only correct in a very loose sense of the word - it was closer to a bathing suit than a robe, at least from the amount of fabric it used, in Hermione’s opinion. A skimpy bathing suit.

“It consists of a few scraps of fabric floating in place. Small scraps of thin fabric,” Hermione said.

“And a cape!” Luna pointed out.

“A transparent cape.” Hermione crossed her arms under her chest and raised her chin. Luna caved in. Sort of.

“This would fit you perfectly!”

It had more fabric. It also looked like a low-cut cocktail dress more than anything else. A cocktail dress that barely reached her thighs, with spaghetti straps and wandering, growing and shrinking holes in the fabric. On the other hand, Hermione had nice legs, she knew that, and this would draw attention to them. And the wandering holes could be enchanted to make sure nothing embarrassing was revealed. It would just take a bit of tweaking. Hermione studied the garment, almost missing the grin on Luna’s face.

“You wanted this robe from the start.” She stared at her friend, narrowing her eyes.

“Uh uh.” Luna just smiled, and picked another of those robes for herself. “We can enchant it to match colors again!”

Hermione had to smile - Luna’s enthusiasm and bubbly personality was hard to resist. And it was fun, she had to admit. And if she was honest with herself the young witch had to admit she wanted to see how her friends, how Harry, reacted to that robe. On that thought… “How much was the other robe?” She grinned at the look of surprise on Luna’s face, a very rare sight.

*****

May had finally brought temperatures warm enough to allow swimming in the Black Lake without too many Warming Charms. As was to be expected half the school had taken to spend the afternoons at the shore of the lake, or in the lake. Some were studying under a tree, some were sunbathing, many were swimming or taking a break from swimming. A number were jumping from floating platforms or from brooms. Harry was seated under a tree himself, a book on stone manipulating spells on his lap. He should be preparing for the next, the final task, but he hadn’t turned a page in the last 30 minutes. The weather was too nice, the lake too inviting, and the sights too appealing.

A shriek and laughter made him turn his head. Another illusionary bathing suit had been hit with a Finite. Judging by the age of the students in the group there, and the lack of nasty hexing in retaliation, that finite had not been entirely unwanted or unplanned for, and the illusion hadn’t just been chosen because swimming without a stitch of actual fabric on was more comfortable. Sixth years, showing off.

“Have you been waiting long for us?”

Hermione’s voice made him turn his head away from the sixth years and towards his friend with such speed he almost hurt his neck. Had she noticed? She was smirking, so she had. Then he noticed what she was wearing - a dress that just about stopped where her thighs started, and looked so thin that the slightest breeze would lift it, if not blow it away completely, given how many holes it already had… he coughed, and looked at the lake instead of at his friend.

“Not long. Half an hour or so. What took you so long?”

“We had to decide on our bathing costumes.” Luna answered for the two of them. Three, Aicha arrived as well. “Where’s Ron?”

“Ron’s already in the water, with Neville.” Harry pointed at the two, using brooms to fly up to the highest of the platforms.

“Showing off for Padma, I see.” Hermione’s voice sounded amused and satisfied. Harry wasn’t certain if that was just because she liked Padma - or if she liked Parvati fuming about that particular couple.

“And for Ginny,” Luna added. “Neville I mean.”

Harry turned his attention back to the three girls, just in time to catch Hermione slipping out of her dress. He stared. His best friend was wearing nothing but an illusion. She was not actually showing more skin than anyone else at a muggle beach, but to think the only thing hiding her body was a flimsy illusion, so easily dispelled with a flick of his wand… his second thought was to tell her to wear something more resistant to finites. He didn’t, of course. She’d have hexed him for that. His third thought was that he was glad he had a book on his lap.

“I am headed into the water myself then, I am feeling a bit hot.”

Hermione slowly walked down to the lake. Harry’s eyes seemed glued to her, he barely noticed Luna and Aicha following his retainer. When she finally started swimming he leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes, and tried to drown out the voice of Sirius that told him that girls wearing that kind of swimming costumes were asking for a Finite. Hermione wasn’t like that. And she’d kill him if he tried anything. He still feared her reaction, should she ever find out what exactly Sirius had done to prank her and Harry and Yuletide.

“Hi Harry.” Susan sat down next to him. She was wearing a sensible robe, at least.

“Hi Susan. Are you going to swim as well?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t feel well enough.”

“Oh. Shouldn’t you see Madam Pomfrey then?”

She sent a look at him that made him shut up. He didn’t know what gaffe he had committed, but he knew better than to ask further. So he looked at the lake, at his friends, at Hermione swimming and laughing. He wanted to join them, but he didn’t want to leave Susan all alone when she was not well enough to swim. Instead the two of them chatted. Or rather, Susan filled him in with the latest gossip while he kept an eye on his retainer, and made agreeing noises from time to time.

Finally, Hermione stepped out of the lake again, and started towards him. Then suddenly her bathing costume disappeared! Harry was on his feet, his book falling to the ground, and had drawn his wand before he realised his friend was not naked, but wearing a bikini. He blinked. He was sure she had not been wearing that before. Hermione kept walking, after throwing a glance at whoever had cast the Finite. Harry was still staring when she reached his spot and dried the bikini with her wand.

“A disillusion charm on the bikini, tied to the illusionary bathing costume. I got the idea after the Curse-Breaking Competition.” Hermione explained, with a proud smile.

Harry beamed at her. That was his girl!

“That was clever.” Susan nodded at Hermione, who smiled at her.

“Thank you. I think it was Lavender, she had a really shocked look on her face, and her wand in hand. I am not sure though. It could also have been Parvati, or someone else.” Judging from the way her smile turned from proud to slightly evil, Hermione was planning to find out, and then retaliate. Harry really did not want to be in the place of whoever had tried to expose her. Once again he hoped she’d never find out what Sirius had done.

He collected his book and sat down again. He could handle Hermione in a bikini. Or so he thought, until Hermione leaned over and whispered into his ear: “We should work on desensitizing you, Harry. Proper purebloods do not react that strongly to nudity in public.” He gaped at her, until she giggled.

Huffing, he hid behind his book for a while. Girls!

*****

Hermione Granger wiped some sweat from her brow. Helping Harry to prepare for the last task was exhausting. With the expected set-up - an underground labyrinth filled with traps and monsters - there was no single spell to give him an edge. Or rather, she had not been able to think of one. A spell to travel through the earth had come to mind at first, but she hadn’t been able to find a way to achieve that. Most spells that allowed to travel through earth resulted in such slow movement, braving the labyrinth would be faster, and not that much more dangerous, given that she had not found a way to see through the earth and spot traps and monsters in advance either. Harry had agreed with her that they should focus on learning and training with existing spells. Which was why she was now getting put through her paces, in an impromptu training session apart from the regular ones with Sirius and Remus. Professor Lupin, she corrected herself.

At least she had found an obscure spell that would help Harry find his way through the maze - Minotaur’s Bane was it called. And she had collected a lot of information about typical opponents champions had faced in the last tasks of past tournaments. She still felt she was letting Harry down, even if he had told her he would never have come as far as he had without her. But as his retainer, she had to, needed to help her Patron. The thought of him getting hurt due to her failing him… it hurt.

She summoned a glass of water and watched Harry hold his shield up while Ron pelted it with stunners and other spells. She wasn’t certain if it would be a blessing or a curse that she would not be able to watch Harry’s progress through the task this time. She wouldn’t see him getting hurt, but she’d worry even more, not knowing how he was faring. Sighing, she got up again and banished the glass. Putting a smile on her face even though she didn’t really feel like, she joined her two friends again.

*****

The last ‘Champions’ Evening’ before the fourth task was different from the others, Harry Potter thought. The camaraderie the Champions had shared ever since the first task was still there, as was the friendship that had grown from that. And yet there was a nostalgia present that affected them all. This was the last time they’d meet like this, before a dangerous task. After the task they wouldn’t be the three Champions anymore. One of them would be the Triwizard Tournament Champion. And the two others would be the ones who didn’t win. The losers, in other words. He supposed he shouldn’t feel bad, should he lose. Beaten by Viktor Krum or Fleur Delacour, both three years his senior and the champions of their schools, shouldn’t be too bad. But to lose, even if only temporarily, ceremonially, Hermione…

Harry raised his glass, filled with a cola he had gotten for the occasion, to his fellow champions. He didn’t say anything, but since they too raised their glasses - wine in their case - and had the same grim and challenging expression on their face he was sure he had as well, he guessed they understood. They drank in silence. Ron looked confused but Hermione was frowning at him, before she raised her own glass.

“To safely finishing this tournament, and a final task without any incident or sabotage!” The way she glared him, there would be an incident right there and then should Harry not agree. So he did. Even though her toast needed a lot of work. But that was his Hermione, as he… liked her. As her Patron, oath-bound. He had asked himself if they would be as close without that oath, without the life debt, but he had never been certain if he wanted to know the answer. If all his feelings towards her were the result of such magic… or, worse, the feelings he hoped she had...

After this chastisement, the rest of the evening was spent in a less competitive mood, though the melancholy remained. Things would not be the same again, for better or worse. Though if Harry was honest, not having to worry about losing Hermione, or about sabotage of a tournament he shouldn’t be participating in in the first place, would be a good thing indeed.

He patted Hermione’s thigh and filled his glass again, smiling at her surprised and then confused expression. He leaned over to her, and whispered. “I’ll not lose you, not even for a second.” She blushed, then glared at him, but he thought her heart was not in it. Not completely, at least.

*****

Albus Dumbledore was standing at the window in his office, looking out. It was a bit unusual for him these days, or years. Fawkes was making inquiring noises behind him, so he turned to his companion of so many decades. “I am just enjoying the scenery, Fawkes.” When the phoenix cocked his head in what Albus had come to recognize as doubt, he added: “And thinking about young Harry.” At that the phoenix lost what interest he had had, and started to groom himself. Albus chuckled. It was true that Harry was often on his mind, especially these days.

The boy, no, the young man, had been faced with yet another calamity, and had risen to the occasion, as he had done so often in the past already. The young man and his friends, first and foremost among them Miss Granger. And since the Yule Ball Harry’s date, Miss Bones, had become a good friend of his as well. And maybe more - which presented Albus with a possible problem.

Miss Granger was of crucial importance for Harry, as the tournament so far had proven. If what he suspected was true, then the young wizard would need her support even more in the future. And Albus was not sure if Miss Bones’s growing friendship was about to threaten that. If Amelia’s niece was seeking just friendship, then she’d be a boon to Harry. But if she was looking for something more, if she was looking to become young Harry’s lover… Miss Granger was already not likely to easily accept becoming Harry’s mistress while he took a wife, although he thought her pragmatism would win out over her pride. But to share his heart with someone else… Albus shook his head. She’d never accept that. If Miss Bones was aiming for something more than friendship with Harry, this would put a strain on the relation to Miss Granger. Either relation.

He returned to his desk and summoned a lemon drop. The Year of Discovery would be bad enough for the two young students’ relationship, without additional complications. But interfering would make matters worse, much worse. It usually did, when teenagers were involved. His own experiences, both as a teenager and as an adult, had proven that.

The enchantment on his office doors informed him that someone was coming up the stairs. Alastor, a look at the small mirror on his desk confirmed. “Good day, Alastor. Lemon Drop?”

“No thanks.“ His friend sat down on the chair in front of his desk, which automatically adjusted to provide more comfort. “I caught one of the tournament staff trying to poison the champions’ robes.”

“Imperiused?” Albus had expected such a ploy. The day of the last task was the best opportunity for such attempts, with so many guests and staff arriving in the morning.

The gruff old Auror nodded. “Aye. The Thief’s Downfall caught him.”

Every galleon the Ministry was paying the goblins for that had been worth it, Albus thought, satisfied. Cornelius had balked at the cost at first, but the thought of having a champion, much less the Boy-Who-Lived, dying on his watch had made him see reason. And yet… “One would think that our saboteur would have been a bit more clever than to rely on that.”

Alastor nodded. “Right again. The replacement robes we got from Madam Malkin’s were already trapped.” He pointed at his artificial eye. “Even with this I almost missed it. There were runes expertly hidden inside the fabric.”

“Oh? What was their effect?” Albus loved discovering new spells or other feats of magic, and even circumstances such as these only dampened his enthusiasm, but did not remove it.

“Don’t know, don’t care right now. The robes were supposed to be free of any enhancements, so there shouldn’t have been any runes. You can sort the things out after the tournament - but it might be a trap for you. Our saboteur certainly would be able to plan that far ahead. The bugger has a twisted mind.” Alastor sounded almost approving.

“I will be careful. You have taken other measures to reduce the chance of similar traps.” It was no question, Albus knew his friend well.

“Aye. Replaced whatever we could spare with conjured things. The stakes stand, the chairs, most of the judges’ lounge. I’d have replaced the robes with conjured ones as well, but the organizers balked.” He scoffed. Albus understood that decision - in such tasks, the students often had to resort to finites to cancel spells affecting them, and to see their clothes disappear would not make a good impression on the guests of Hogwarts. “So I got clean robes from my own tailor.”

“Very well. Let us descend to the arena then, and supervise the preparations again.” Albus knew he should have been there from the start, but he was not getting any younger these days. And he wanted to be well-rested when the task started.

  
He didn’t show any weakness when he stood up and followed his friend down the stairs, but since his friend had not commented on him not being present at the arena already, Alastor certainly knew or suspected.

*****

Hermione Granger was sitting with Harry, Sirius and Professor Lupin in the Champions’ Lounge. The Delacours and Krums were walking around Hogwarts, sightseeing with the two champions acting as guides. That had been deemed too dangerous for Harry, and by extension, herself. Not that anyone present had felt like it. This was their school, after all. Professor Lupin lived here during the terms, and Sirius had visited so often, he might as well have taken a room too. She wished she could show her parents the school, but… she told herself it was too dangerous under the circumstances. And they’d not like seeing their only daughter presented as one of the prizes of the event anyway.

The door to the lounge opened, and Hermione tensed up. She had her wand partially drawn, hidden at her side, and pushed away from the wall she was leaning against, so she could react faster, just in case. When she saw it was Fleur, she relaxed - a bit. The French Champion was leading her family inside and introduced them. To Harry, Sirius and Professor Lupin, of course. Retainers did not rate introductions on such occasions. Next to Fleur’s parents, a stunningly beautiful Veela and a stocky but jovial looking wizard, her grand-parents and Head of Families were also present for the event. All decked out in high-fashion robes from Paris, which seemed inspired by the latest Chanel collection, as far as Hermione could judge. It seemed she had not been as original as she had thought when she had turned to muggle fashion as inspiration for her own projects. Unless of course the designer for Chanel was inspired by wizard fashion.

And there was Fleur’s adorable little sister Gabrielle, who was clinging to her mother’s leg and peeking out from behind her. Hermione smiled when she met the little Veela’s gaze but Gabrielle squeaked and ducked behind her mother’s robes. She didn’t look that scary, did she? Fortunately, Ron was not present, he’d have made a few jokes at her expense later. Unfortunately, Sirius was present, who’d cover for Ron’s loss, and then some. She glared at him, but he just smirked.

“We have heard such good things about you from my granddaughter,” Fleur’s grandmother, a witch and not a Veela, stated with a noticeable lack of accent, “you must visit us over the summer at our mansion at the Côte d’Azur.”

Hermione noted that it was the grandmother who extended the invitation she had expected for months, but she was not certain if that meant the mansion was within her purview, or if it was because Harry was Fleur’s friend, and therefore it fell to the female Head of Family to invite him. She’d have to ask Fleur later.

Harry of course accepted. Hermione didn’t know what she would have done to him if he robbed her of the opportunity to visit the French Magical Riviera as a guest of the Delacours. Or rather, as the retainer of a guest of them.

While the two groups were still exchanging pleasantries, Krum’s family arrived as well. They presented quite the contrast to the elegant Delacours. Not just because of their robes, which had more than a passing resemblance to duelists’ robes, but their guarded, reserved attitude. Even when smiling and inviting Harry to visit them in Bulgaria over the summer, they seemed to be wary, ready. Like herself, Hermione realised, wondering if that was just because they knew about the threat of sabotage, or if there was something more behind it. This summer would be interesting, she decided.

*****

Barty Crouch Jr. smiled widely, overlooking the site chosen for his master’s rebirth. Everything was in its place. The altar, the sacrificial implements, the needed ingredients, the candles and runic stones encircling it, the polished stone floor, all perfectly aligned. If the members of his old coven knew what ritual he would be performing at their sacred site… not that any of them were still alive. But the protections placed upon it so long ago would mask the magic worked this day. And the corruption of the site’s magic that would result from the ritual would help power it.

Next to him Mykew Cattermole-Brandon was sleeping peacefully in his crib. Barty sat down and caressed the baby’s cheek. Such a fine young wizard! He tickled his belly, and grinned at the giggling noises that produced. The Cattermole-Brandons had every reason to be proud of their son, if not of their pitiful wards, or equally pitiful skills at defense. He didn’t think they had even seen him before he had taken them out. Once his Master was ruling Britain, as was his his ancestral right and sacred duty, such weaknesses would be corrected.

He stood up again and walked over to the altar upon which the temporary host of his Master was resting. The wind was picking up, despite the clear sky - the magic of the place had to be feeling something important, something glorious was about to take place.

His Master, wearing the form of a small child, a transfigured snake, turned his head towards him, but otherwise remained still as a statue.

“Barty, my most faithful servant.”

“Master.” He bowed deeply.

“It is time. Begin.”

*****

“It’s time, Mister Potter.”

Harry turned towards the attendant addressing him and nodded. Since he was in the lead by five points he’d have a head start of five minutes. Staggered starting times meant that whoever reached the goal first was the winner, without the need to award and then compare points totals, as had happened after the other tasks. He didn’t know why that was not done for every task. Probably tradition.

He walked to the entrance to the labyrinth the arena had been changed into. It was impressive. A three-dimensional maze of tunnels, chutes and twisted passages, made from stone, earth, even clay, the structure slowly changing, warping. Hermione had said it reminded her of a painting from Escher, come alive - whatever that meant. Harry was pretty certain that it was not a good thing. It didn’t matter though. What mattered was that somewhere inside there, at the exit, was Hermione, waiting for him. He didn’t know what kind of traps and monsters would be trying to stop him, but he knew they’d not succeed. His retainer, his Hermione, needed him.

“Ready Mister Potter?”

Harry drew his wand and nodded. “Yes.”

“Begin.”

Harry entered the arena and felt the familiar tug of a portkey. After a very brief trip he landed in a crouch, wand out, in a dark tunnel, on the top floor of the labyrinth - probably. He had expected that, had been counting on it. If all Champions started from the same place, his and Hermione’s plan would not work that well. Waving his wand in a complicated pattern, he started to cast Minotaur’s Bane. Soon a glowing ball of yarn appear at the tip of his wand, floating a bit away before it started to uncoil, with a strand floating down the tunnel. The spell led the caster to a place or person known to him. It had a short range, but it should cover the labyrinth. Harry smirked as he followed the yarn. Some might call this cheating, but it wasn’t his fault that Hermione was his stake in this tournament. He’d take any advantage he could get to make sure he could get her safely out of it again. She was his retainer, after all.

Turning around the next corner he came face to face with what looked like an animated clay figure the size of a man. It was trying to catch the intangible yarn and had not noticed Harry yet. A Blasting Curse from him made certain it would not notice him ever by splattering clay bits all over the … clay walls? Harry’s eyes widened when he saw that the remains of the figure he had blown up were sinking into the walls. He might have been a tad hasty in blowing it up. When over a dozen clay figures started to form out of the walls, floor and even ceiling, he knew he had made a mistake.

Running past them before they had fully formed, he hit a few of them with sticking charms in passing. Hopefully that would at least slow them down. Glancing back, he saw that half a dozen were still chasing after him, but they seemed to be rather slow. He would be able to outrun them - unless another obstacle stopped him.

He continued to run until the walls changed from clay to stone. Perfect. Turning around, he started to transfigure the stone into a wall to close up the tunnel between him and the clay figures. It took some time, but he managed to raise the wall high enough to keep him safe before the first of his pursuers reached him. Sketching a salute at the clay arm grasping through the gap left on top of the wall, he turned around, then stopped. That was a rather long arm… looking back, the arm was almost touching the ground. That thing was changing its shape to go over the wall!

“Confringo!”

Another Blasting Curse blew it up, giving him enough time to raise another wall. This time he left no gap for them to ooze through. Shaking his head at the mistakes he had made, he vowed to to be more careful.

*****

Hermione definitely didn’t like this task. Not only was she still on display with the other stakes, a prize to be taken by whoever reached her first, but she couldn’t even see how Harry was doing. Wouldn’t know if he was hurt, or worse, while she was left to stare at the stone walls of her temporary prison.

“Ah. Did you feel those tremors? Someone fell down a chute. I wonder if that was your owner.”

A temporary prison she was stuck in with the last guardian of the labyrinth, an Earth Genie. Who apparently believed he would be able to keep the stakes if no champion managed to defeat him. She rolled her eyes in disdain at the creature, who looked like a man made of grey stone clad in arabic garments. She knew that if no one managed to win, the stakes would be returned to the Champions. Or their heirs.

“You’ll be a prize my rivals will be jealous of. They laughed at me when I agreed to take part in this contest of you mortals. But I will have the last laugh!” He stepped closer to her, but was careful not to cross the line around the stand where the stakes rested. Or sat in Hermione’s case. His grin showed pearly white teeth, in a mouth too wide for a human his size. “So pretty…”

Hermione really wanted to hurt whoever had the idea to pick this creature as the last obstacle. Refraining from hexing the creature - that would break the deal he had made, she had been told several times - she pulled out a book from her enchanted pocket. Reading should distract her. Or at least, show the annoying genie just how little she cared about his delusions. They were delusions, of course. No wizard would break custom and tradition and deal away the stakes of the champions. She told herself that while she started to turn the pages.

*****

His Master’s form was soaked with the potion Barty Crouch Jr. had been brewing for months. He didn’t notice the awful stench of rotten, putrid meat. The candles were burning and the runic stones were glowing, shielding the site from the winds that had grown to the strength of a storm, battering at the glowing barrier and destroying the foliage of the trees surrounding the area. It was like being in the eye of a hurricane, Barty thought, or how he imagined that would be like.

The obsidian dagger had been soaking in the potion as well. The stone blade would shatter in a day and an hour from the stress, but it would hold until then. It had carved out the hearts of countless people sacrificed to the sun in the Americas, before the Spaniards had put an end to that practise and to the people who had practised it, centuries ago. They had believed such sacrifices were needed to keep the world from ending, to continue the cycle of life. It was only fitting that such a weapon would serve to return his master to life.

He took the dagger and started to walk around the altar, chanting the words he had learned by heart from the grimoires his Master had guided him to. He didn’t even notice the storm growing stronger, tearing branches off trees and smashing them against the barrier. All his thoughts were on his glorious duty as dark magic filled him.

*****

A trapdoor. Harry almost smiled. After the encounter with the strangling fireproof roots that had left him in tattered, ripped robes and after the quicksand roof with the gravity reversal field, encountering a trapdoor, likely with a pit beneath it, felt like catching a break. It was well-made, but he had spotted the fine lines in the stone floor. He conjured a rock the size of his head and banished it at the trap. That should be enough of a weight to trigger it.

The rock hit the trapdoor, bouncing off, but nothing happened. Harry frowned. Maybe there was a magical trigger, a detection spell? He cast a Finite at the area, then banished another rock at the trapdoor. Still nothing. Maybe this was a fake trap, meant to stall the too cautious? He stepped closer when the trapdoor suddenly opened - towards the ceiling - and a dog-sized spider jumped out.

Harry dove to the side, but one of the creature’s legs caught him, smashing him against the wall. He lost another part of his robe, as well as some skin, but he managed to cast a Shield Charm in time to stop the spider from pouncing on him. For a moment he was staring at the mandibles scraping over his shield in an attempt to snatch him, and saw eight beady eyes meeting his. Then the spider jumped back and crouched down. It was about to charge at him again, the wizard realised. His shield would not stand up against another impact.

Harry cast Aguamenti. The stream of water managed to push the animal back - he had become quite proficient at casting that spell when he had been training for the second task - and while it was recovering, he followed up with a piercing curse. The spider moved at the last moment though and he didn’t hit the head, instead drilling a hole into its body.

Screeching, the monster rushed him, green blood pouring out of the wound. Harry froze the water on the floor and slid to the side. The spider went past him and stopped near the trapdoor. A quick banishing charm and a colloportus later, the spider was trapped in its own trap. Panting, Harry cast a quick Episkey on his side and continued. Fortunately, the yarn he was following had not reversed direction - that happened already once, to be expected when traveling inside a labyrinth that was slowly changing, after all.

*****

Barty Crouch Jr. took a deep breath. He was covered with runes written with his own blood, as was his master’s body, and Mykew. With the child in his arms, he walked backwards around the altar, retracing the steps he had taken before. Every candle he passed was snuffed out, the site growing darker despite the fact it was still afternoon. When he had completed the circle the area was covered by unnatural darkness. Barty didn’t see anything anymore but his own body - and the runes written with his own blood, which seemed to glow in the darkness, filled with power that made him shiver with pain. The obsidian dagger was floating, its point tracking Barty - no, Mykew.

With a smile, Barty placed the baby on the altar, opposite his Master. Outside the barrier, which was shining now, the storm had started to uproot trees, and wood, smashed to kindling, was starting to pile up around the barrier. He chuckled - nothing would stop him now.

He closed his eyes, savoring the moment for just a second, then reached for the dagger. On the altar, Mykew, held in place by a sticking charm and unable to move, started to cry. Barty’s smile widened while he raised the dagger. Perfect!

*****

Harry was in a very bad mood. He had dropped down a chute filled with water, bouncing and scraping over the stone walls, acquiring bruises faster than in one of Wood’s infamous ‘dodge the bludgers’ exercises. Exercises Hermione had hexed Wood for, before Harry could stop her. He had to recast the Minotaur’s Bane spell twice so far, and had dealt with poison gas, underground rivers and magical kudzu that had grown almost faster than he had managed to burn it.

The tunnel he was in had changed too. No clay, no stone, but packed earth surrounded him. That usually meant plants of a sort, he thought. He didn’t see any sign of roots though. He raised his wand and shot flames at the walls, the floor and the ceiling. He hadn’t heard of invisible plants, but one never knew what a wizard or witch could invent. Nothing. He moved forward, and repeated the spell. This time he hit something - out of the wall slid a thick-limbed, slow-moving creature made of earth and stone - an elemental. He bared his teeth. He had dealt with such before, and he had just the spell for it.

He raised his wand, ready to blast it, but before he could finish his spell, he felt as if someone had driven a red-hot poker into his forehead. He threw his head back, screaming with pain as blood spurted from his scar. He didn’t even realise he had fallen to his knees, nor did he see the elemental close in. He was still screaming, unable to do anything, when the thing started to engulf him.

*****

“Did you hear that? Unless my ears deceive me, one champion just found his end. So close… and yet so far, now.”

The genie was gloating, but Hermione wasn’t listening. She knew that voice, even if she had never heard it scream like this. And her torc was warm. Harry! She jumped up without thinking, wand in hand, while her chair clattered to the ground behind her. He needed her help! She turned to the tunnel among the three leading here that the scream had come from.

She didn’t get far, the barrier around the stakes stopped her, to the amusement of the foul genie. His cackling laugh made her want to hurt him, kill him even. Harry was suffering, and that monster found that amusing? She had her wand pointed at the barrier, almost trying to break it, despite the knowledge it would be futile. When she lowered her wand instead, and pressed her hands against the barrier, looking at the tunnel she knew Harry was in, tears of frustration and anguish running down her cheeks, the genie laughed louder.

*****

Barty Crouch Jr. was on his knees, panting with exhaustion, covered in blood - his, and Mykew’s. The potions he had taken an hour ago were starting to end, and he was feeling the damage the ritual had done to his body, the pain growing with each breath he took as his blood was leaking through the holes the runes on his skin had left when they were consumed by the ritual. And yet he was filled with rapture. In front of him stood his master, restored to life. Larger than life, handsome, powerful, a wizard in his prime. Shiny black hair framed an aristocratic face, and the body… fitting for a quidditch star. He was perfect!

Struggling with the effort, Barty pulled out the Dark Lord’s wand, taken from a cache he had been guided to months ago, and held it out. His Master looked at it, and it flew to him, landing in his hand. A moment later he was wearing a robe, blacker than night, and tailored to his new form. Magnificent.

Barty was still smiling, caught in ecstasy despite the horrible pain wracking his body, when he started to topple over. Before he lost consciousness he felt his Master’s magic catch him, preventing him from touching the ground.

*****

Harry was surrounded by earth. If not for the Bubble-Head Charm he had cast to pass through the poison, some time back, he’d have suffocated - or rather, the portkey he was carrying would have activated. His scar was still hurting, bleeding too, but the visions of blood, death and a crazy wizard turning a baby into a snake and then into an adult man had stopped. He could not dwell on whatever that had been though, he had to reach Hermione.

He realised the elemental had engulfed him. Was about to crush him. He couldn’t move his limbs, but he still was holding his wand. For all the good it would do to him - he wouldn’t be able to move it enough to cast. For a moment he was ready to give up. He had done what he could. Then rage filled him. Nothing, no one would stop him! He screamed into the earth surrounding him, holding him prisoner, wishing with every fibre of his being to smash his bonds, to break free. He would not be defeated!

A shield sprang up around him, pushing the earth elemental holding him back. Far enough so he could cast. Grinning, he started to transfigure the animated earth holding him into sand. Soon the floor was covered with fine grains of sand, and what was left of the elemental was fleeing. He almost chased after it, wanting to destroy that thing for daring to attack him, but realised that Hermione, his Hermione, was waiting for him, needed him. Panting, he staggered onward. His spelled yarn was gone, but he was certain she was just ahead. He knew it.

*****

“Hermione!”

Hermione gasped, relief - Harry was alive - mixing with horror when she saw just how hurt he was. His robes were in tatters, he was covered with mud, dust, sand and blood. So much blood. He was stumbling more than he was walking, and his glasses were bent. And his eyes… wide, bloodshot, and so intense… “Harry!”

“Ah, one brave champion managed to reach me! But will you be able to overcome me, as beaten as you are?” The genie was cackling at Harry. “Or will you try to make a deal? Maybe ...”

Whatever the genie had been about to offer Hermione would never know. Harry turned towards the creature, snarled, and blasted it into the stone wall with so much force, it left a small crater. Hermione stared. That had been an expelliarmus. A very, very powerful one.

Her friend staggered towards her while she was pressing herself against the barrier. “Harry!” He looked like he’d collapse any second. The barrier disappeared as soon as he touched it, and he fell into her arms.

She didn’t know how long they remained like that, kneeling, holding each other, crying into each other’s shoulder. Harry was alive. He had come for her. But he was hurt! He needed help! She started to stand up, pulling her friend up with her. The door was right there. Healers would be waiting outside.

The door was glowing - the seals were broken. Just a few steps. Behind her, she heard the genie groan. Served the foul creature right! Then the words registered.

“The task is over, the deal done. I am free now. As planned.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him smile cruelly, and pull out a red egg. Her eyes widened when the egg began to glow and he pulled its arm back to throw it.

Hermione cast a Shield Charm and spun around, protecting Harry with her own body as she pushed him towards the door. The egg hit her shield just as the door opened, shattering it, and she felt the the protection spells on her robe flare up when fire engulfed her.

*****


	11. Endings and Beginnings

**Chapter 11: Endings and Beginnings**

Fire engulfed Hermione Granger. Flames licked at her clothes and at her hair, but the heat was not touching her. Or she was not feeling it yet, due to shock. The young witch didn’t know what was the case, didn’t care. All she cared about was pushing Harry through the door, out of the labyrinth, to the waiting healers. To safety. Behind her, the genie laughed, cackled.

She tackled Harry forward, tried to shield him from the flames with her own body. He hit the door, gasping - in pain - when she drove him into the stone, forcing it open. The two fell out of the arena, onto the stone floor of the platform. Hermione could see the waiting wizards already starting towards them, wands out. Before she could tell them to heal Harry though her protective spells started to fail, and she felt the flames surrounding her, felt herself burn, and she screamed.

Her hair was burning, the acrid stench reaching her nose. Her neck felt as if something was tearing the skin off, slowly. Her robe was burning as if it had been dipped into oil and set aflame. She realised that was true - she had been splattered with a burning substance. Shrieking, she tried to tear the blazing robe off her, but the same toughness that had saved her so far now was working against her. A small part of her was making a note: she needed a quick-strip charm or such. But that thought was drowned out by her panic, her struggle to open her robe and slide out of it before she was burned to a cinder.

Water hit her and for a second she felt relief, felt the heat abate. Then the flames roared up and the heat increased. Steam surrounded her, and her lungs hurt with each breath she took.

“Stop! Stop it! No Water!” she screamed, frantically shaking her left arm to get it out of the smoldering sleeve clinging to it. With the burning remains of her robe hanging on her right arm, her wand arm, she started to cast a spell she had learned a week ago, to see if it would help Harry in the task.

“Terrenum Mantellum!”

Earth, clay, some stones appeared around and on her, covering her, and started to smother the flames.

The earth mixed with the water the fools were still shooting at her, turning into mud. She did not care. It covered her, her head first, then her body, then her limbs, until she was engulfed in mud, earth, and clay. She lay there, blind, held by densely packed earth. Hermione didn’t know if she was still burning, the pain from her wounds was already too strong to tell. Her lungs hurt from the steam and the lack of air. The material surrounding her was supposed to be brittle, but the heat and water had changed that. Not enough to bake the clay, fortunately. Using her left hand she dug at the sticky cover over her mouth, tearing at it until she could breathe again.

She gulped down the air, screaming with the pain it caused her, and stammered again: “No water… no water.”

She kept stammering, pleading, encased in her shell, in pain. She faintly heard someone else screaming: “No water! She said no Water!” Harry! Then she didn’t hear anyone, anything anymore.

*****

Harry Potter’s battered body had gained more bruises when Hermione had slammed him into the door, forcing it open as if he was a battering ram. He had fallen down on the stone floor, hard, hurting his wrist in an attempt to catch his fall. Groaning, the young champion had started to get up, spotting several wizards and witches in healer robes running towards him. Behind him the door had already closed again.

Then he heard her scream. Hermione!

He spun around, heedless of his injuries, and saw his best friend on fire, burning, screaming. It felt as if someone had torn his heart apart.

“Aguamenti!”

Streams of water hit her, turning into steam as they suppressed the flames, but to his horror the flames did not flicker out, but increased in size.

“Stop! Stop it! No water!”

When he heard her words, he didn’t think, he simply lashed out. A Banishing Spell bowled over half the wizards surrounding his friend and interrupted their spells. Someone tried to grab him, and he stunned whoever it was without looking. Hermione needed him!

The witch had struggled out of her burning robe and had started to cover herself with earth. Earth Shell! Trusting his best friend he followed her example.

“Terrenum Mantellum!”

Earth covered the burning witch, surrounding her, replacing the flames. Water was still hitting her, hampering both his and her spells.

“No water! She said no water!” he screamed at the wizards and witches standing there, brandishing his wand. If they did not stop hurting Hermione…

Fortunately, they did. He barely noticed another, older wizard kneeling, casting at a burning spot on the stone floor. He was too focused on his friend, encased in mud and stone, lying on the floor - dying? He staggered towards her, shrugging off hands trying to stop him, and knelt down, staring at her.

The voices around him started to grow dimmer and he slumped forward.

“It’s Byzantine Alchemical Oil. Keep water away from her. Get her to the infirmary and tell them we need a fire-suppressing potion, at once!”

“Levitate her. And get him to the Infirmary as well.”

“Merlin! His sleeve is burning!”

“Carefully now!”

He closed his eyes, his cheek pressed into the warm mud covering Hermione’s body.

*****

Ron Weasley was screaming at the Auror standing between him and his friends. “They are my best friends! I need to know how they are doing!” If not for Padma and Neville holding him back, he’d have attacked the stupid wizard, even without his wand, which Ginny had nicked.

The Auror remained impassive. “This is a restricted area. No one is allowed inside. You’ll be informed in due time about your friends.”

Ron relaxed a bit, then tried to rush forward, but Neville knew him too well and didn’t let go of his arm. Closing his eyes, Ron finally stopped struggling. What a horrible end to the tournament!

It had started so well, with Harry using his head start and a spell Hermione had found in an obscure book - the announcer had to ask an expert to identify it - to rapidly make progress towards the exit. Fleur had been held up by a giant-sized Brazilian Venomous Tentacula right after entering. Neville had been all excited about the fire-proof strangling plant. Everyone else had been more excited about Fleur getting part of her robes torn off in a most intriguing manner. The Veela had defeated the obstacle by draining the plant of any water in it, but it had cost her time. Viktor had blown up a pack of giant moles, and then had run straight into a trap that had sent him down into the deepest bowels of the arena, leaving him in magical darkness that extinguished even magical light. Thanks to a projection the audience had been able to clearly see the walls slowly closing in while Viktor had been stumbling around. He had escaped that by conjuring metal poles to stop the walls, then opened a door with a series of Blasting Curses. That too had cost him much time though.

Harry had had his share of close encounters as well during that. It had been exciting to see him go through the enemies, and Ron had cheered louder than anyone else when Harry had banished the spider down the trapdoor it had jumped out of before. He had also screamed louder than anyone else in their group when the spider had appeared, but no one had mentioned that. Yet.

And then Harry had suddenly screamed, and blood had gushed out of his scar. No one had know what that had been - another trap? Luna had stated that elementals had no such powers, but by then, everyone had been hanging on the edge of their seats, following Harry’s struggle with the elemental.

When he had reached Hermione, when the barrier had gone down and the victory fanfare had sounded, the cheers had been almost deafening. The Champion of Hogwarts, the Boy-Who-Lived, had won! The cheers had turned into screams of horror when that earth genie had thrown a fireball at Ron’s best friends. Seeing them burning, hurting, hearing them scream, that had been pure torture for Ron and the rest of their friends. Padma had cried into his shoulder, Neville had held Ginny, Luna and Aicha had been frozen, even Aicha’s genie had been muttering what probably were curses in a voice too high pitched to be heard.

Ron shook his head to banish those horrible memories. They were walking towards the Champion’s Lounge now. The families of Viktor and Fleur were there, or had been there, and might know more. Maybe Viktor and Fleur would be there too.

“How was that possible? Didn’t the organizers made sure that all creatures in the maze were safe?” Ginny sounded angry, gesturing wildly at Luna and Aicha. Aicha’s tiny genie was hiding inside the hair of the witch, Ron noticed, probably afraid of getting hexed in place of the other genie, who had disappeared from the labyrinth as soon as Hermione and Harry had left. Ginny could be a handful, he knew, and had a temper, but he didn’t think she’d hurt the tiny little sprite. Better safe than sorry though.

“They would have made a deal with the genie, and I cannot believe they would not have stipulated a ‘no killing’ clause. Either someone made a really stupid mistake, which is very unlikely given the genies’ well-deserved reputation for making dangerous deals, or whatever it did was not lethal, or…” Aicha trailed off, suddenly looking grim.

“Or?” Ginny demanded, impatient.

“Or the deal with the organizers ended when the tournament ended. Usually, the genie would return to its home at once, but if there was another deal already in place…”

“The saboteur,” Neville stated in a flat voice.

“The saboteur. But to arrange such a deal, knowing which genie would be chosen, in advance… that would have required a lot of information, and experience.” Aicha sounded as if she couldn’t believe her own theory.

“But who could that be? There cannot be too many wizards that could do such a thing, and right under Dumbledore’s nose,” Neville said with conviction.

“And Moody’s nose. Or what’s left of it,” Luna added, which made Ron snort despite the seriousness of the situation. He could think of one likely candidate for this. Another reason why he needed to talk to his two best friends. If they were still… no! They couldn’t be dead! Not from a stupid fire!

*****

The first thing Hermione Granger saw when she opened her eyes was a white ceiling. She knew at once that she was in the Hogwarts Infirmary - the young witch had been in there often enough following Harry’s Quidditch matches. It was a comforting thought. If she was here, then her wounds had not been too grave. Otherwise she’d be in St. Mungo's. Turning her head, she looked around. Next to her bed was another, occupied by a sleeping … Harry! She’d knew that mop of hair anywhere. But why was he still here? Had he been hurt that badly?

“Harry!” Her voice sounded raspy, hoarse, and she had to cough to clear her throat before she could continue. “Harry!” She was about to try to get out of her bed, check on him, when he woke up.

“Hermione?” His head turned towards her and a quick flick had his glasses appear on his head. “Hermione! You’re awake!” Her friend jumped out of his bed, to her side, before she could answer. Belatedly she noticed that he was wearing his school robes, not a hospital gown.

“Have you been sleeping here?” She tried to sound incredulous, disapproving even, but to see him care so much about her made her almost as happy as seeing him unhurt and whole.

“Of course!” He gripped her hand, her left hand, she realised, and squeezed gently.

Hermione giggled briefly in response, then grew more serious. She lifted her right arm, covered in bandages, then touched her face. No bandages there. But her hair… she ran her fingers over her scalp, and found only stubble where a thick mass of curls should be. No scars though that she could feel. “H… How bad is it?” Her eyes sought his, demanding the truth, not some gentle lie.

“You’ll be needing a hair growth potion.” He smiled at her.

“And?” She waved her bandaged arm.

“They had to grew back the skin on your arm, neck, part of your shoulder, and legs. The arm was the worst.” Harry winced while recounting her injuries.

“No cursed fire then?” Cursed wounds that could not be magically healed were the nightmare of every witch or wizard. Even if one survived them one was scarred for life. Like Mad-Eye Moody. Hermione suspected that muggle plastic surgery could help, but she was not too keen on finding out in person if she was right.

“No. Byzantine Alchemical Oil.”

“Ah. That explains the reaction with the water.” Which had almost killed her.

“Yes. If not for your quick reaction…”

“...I’d be dead.” Hermione finished with a flat voice, and immediately regretted it when Harry shuddered and took a deep breath, fighting off tears. “I am not, though. I am alright,” she added quickly, patting the hand holding hers with her bandaged one.

“Merlin!” Harry gathered her in a hug so tight it hurt. “I feared I’d lost you!”

“So did I,” she whispered. The two remained like that for some time. Hermione couldn’t tell how long, she simply enjoyed hugging Harry, feeling his warmth, smelling him, alive, healthy, sensing his hands roam over her back, which her gown had left bare… She blinked. That was a bit… “Ah, shouldn’t you call Madam Pomfrey?” The Matron usually told Hermione to inform her as soon as Harry woke up, in such a situation. It was quite the reverse from the usual, she realised, with Harry waiting at her bedside.

“Ah… yes, she said something like that. She wanted to check you.” Harry suddenly pulled back, and she saw a guilty expression before he turned around and sent off a glowing stag with his wand. “Merlin, I didn’t think, I was just so happy you have woken up.”

“It’s OK. If I were in danger or needed immediate attention she’d have left a monitoring spell in place.” Hermione smiled at him. “So… how long was I, ah, out?”

“Three days. They fed you dreamless sleep, so you’d not feel pain while they … fixed your wounds.” Harry winced again. Hermione understood - that was longer than she had expected. She wasn’t an expert though. “Fleur and Viktor send their regards.” He pointed at cards sitting on the small table next to her bed. “The delegations from the other schools left Hogwarts yesterday. Though apart from that you’ve not missed anything else. The exams won’t start until next week, anyway.”

“I know that.” Hermione glared at him, without any anger though, and he grinned in response. School. Exams. Good-natured teasing. For a moment it was almost as if they were not in the infirmary. As if she was not recovering from an attack that had just failed to kill her. And Harry. If not for the protections on her robe. Her robe! “I guess I’ll have to get a new robe.” Not really a problem, she had planned to replace some of her spells on her robe anyway, over the summer.

“Sirius already bought half a dozen for you.” Harry smiled with an apologetic expression.

“Great. How many of them are not meant for 6th years?”

“There’s one standard school robe. I made sure he’d not prank that one.”

Hermione rubbed her forehead. She’d feel naked without her protective spells, but it would do. Belatedly she realised she had forgotten something else. “What happened to the broom and necklace?”

“The broom was burned to cinders. The necklace was unscathed.”

“Of course! A Veela heirloom would be fireproof. You won, right?” Hermione had heard the victory fanfare, but she would not put it past some people - Karkaroff - to try to get Harry disqualified for the loss of the broom, or her own actions in protecting him.

“Yes. Karkaroff tried to argue that I had received illegal assistance from you, both for the Minotaur’s Bane and when you pushed me out of the arena, and should be disqualified, but the other judges shot him down. Or so I was told - I didn’t really care to follow that, not with you… like this.”

“You were hurt as well.” If he told her he had been fine, she’d hex him, as soon as she got her wand back.

“I was fine.” He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Honestly, I was no worse than after a rough Quidditch match!” Which was not fine at all, in her opinion.

“You mean beaten to a pulp and ragged past the point of exhaustion?” Hermione was not quite growling, but close to it. Things were rapidly returning to what passed for normal when it came to the Infirmary and the two of them.

“Err… I won the tournament. I ransomed the necklace back to Fleur, but seeing as Viktor’s broom was destroyed, and since that had happened after I had won, so technically it was mine right then, we called it even.”

“So you got the prize for the winner and half the ransom. Not bad.” Viktor would get a new one from his sponsor, Hermione was certain. The publicity from the tournament, and the dramatic circumstances of its destruction, would ensure that. A good deal - a new broom, and no ransom to be paid. It vexed her a bit, seeing them lose out on the ransom money, but… she didn’t care that much about the loss, not after what she and Harry had just gone through. The tournament was finished, she was no longer a stake in it. Even if there had been no real danger of her ending up as Viktor’s or Fleur’s retainer, it was a relief. She leaned back, sighing.

“Hermione….”

“Yes?” Hermione looked at Harry. He seemed to be hesitating, timid even. That was very unusual.

Her friend took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot, while you were… while I was waiting for you to wake up.”

Hermione’s first impulse was to make a joke, but Harry sounded too serious for that. So she just nodded, prodding him to continue while wondering what he had been thinking about.

“The thought of losing you, to death… it scared me so much, it hurt me so much…“ Harry closed his eyes, took another deep breath, then looked at her again.

Hermione licked her lips, suddenly nervous.

“Hermione, it made me realise that you’re not just my best friend. You’re more. I don’t just care for you, I…”

Hermione held her hand up, stopping him. Suddenly, things were clear. Things she had not wanted to see, or hope for. She wanted him to say it, wanted it to hear it, wanted to say it herself, but… “Harry, I… I know.” She saw him starting to smile, and it pained her to continue, to wipe that shy smile off his face, but she had to. “But… are you certain it’s not just… “ she trailed off, and touched her throat, where she would usually be wearing her torc.

Harry understood what she meant, of course. They knew each other, sometimes better than they knew themselves. “Sirius said the Oath doesn’t create love. No magic can create love.”

“Sirius says a lot when it helps him get girls into bed.” Hermione regretted her outburst at once when Harry jerked back, hurt. “I am sorry, Harry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just… he doesn’t seem to be taking this seriously.” Not as seriously as she felt it deserved to be taken. She didn’t mention that Sirius was still suffering from his time in Azkaban, and not getting the help he needed, in her opinion. Harry already knew her thoughts on that matter.

Her friend weakly smiled at the familiar pun. “I know. But… have you ever found anything about the Oath, or the life debt, creating love? You’ve researched the topic extensively. If there was anything, you’d have found it.”

Hermione nodded, even though she knew she had not researched the Patron Oath as much as she should have. She had been 12 at the time, and afraid. And afterwards… she hadn’t wanted to know. She had been afraid of knowing, she realised.

“I know, but… there is magic that is said to create love, or something like it. Potions.”

“The Oath is not a potion. And we’ve not been potioned either. Pomfrey would have noticed even if we would have missed it.” Harry was sounding almost as if he was pleading.

Hermione’s heart went out to him, and more than anything she wanted to hold him, and tell him what he wanted to hear, what she wanted to say. Instead she said what she needed to say. “But what if … I don’t want to wake up one day, and find the Oath gone, and with it our…” That was her greatest fear: To find out her feelings were just a lie caused by magic. To find out that Harry only loved her because of magic. To be so happy, and then realise it was fake… she could not bear that.

Harry drew a hissing breath, and ground his teeth. “It’s not the Oath. It can’t be. Some things, magic can’t do!” He didn’t sound that certain though, to Hermione at least. He sounded almost desperate. She wanted to tell him it was alright, wanted to make him feel better, but… was that the Oath, urging her to help her Patron? To agree with him, to obey him?

“I’ll find out. I’ll find out, and we’ll know.” The young witch patted his hand again, blinking when tears appeared in her eyes. She started to brush them away, but he stopped her.

“Please.”

Hermione nodded, unable to say anything right then without breaking down and crying.

The sound of the door to the Infirmary opening made both of them straighten up. Hermione wiped the tears off her face then, and Harry rubbed his own eyes. The were not in private anymore. Appearances had to be upheld. Hermione squeezed his hand again while Madam Pomfrey walked over to them.

“I am sorry for the delay. I was held up by the Headmaster. I trust you know how he can be. Now, Miss Granger, let’s see how you’re doing. You gave us quite a scare there.” The Matron didn’t even try to shoo Harry out before she started to cast diagnostic spells. She had learned her lesson with Hermione years ago. One did not try to separate the two under such circumstances.

*****

“Did sleeping beauty wake up yet?” Alastor lowered himself into the seat with more care than usual. He wasn’t getting any younger either, Albus Dumbledore knew.

“Miss Granger woke up an hour ago. Poppy found she is well on her way to a full recovery and should leave the Infirmary in another day or two.” Albus smiled stating this. He loved giving good news - especially in times like these.

“So, Potter’s ready to be debriefed then.”

“Do you think he saw something that will give us a clue about the saboteur’s identity?” Albus asked softly.

Alastor scoffed. “No. But his scar was gushing blood, that’s something to worry about. I want to know what caused this.”

He wasn’t the only one. Albus kept his expression bland, but something must have given him away since his old friend narrowed his good eye.

“You know or suspect something.” It wasn’t a question.

“I do. But if I am right, it needs to be kept secret at all costs.”

“Why haven’t you already dragged the boy in here then?”

“He was too distracted by his worry about Miss Granger. He would not have been able to deliver a clear memory of the event.”

Alastor raised one of his eyebrows. “I see.” No need to elaborate further - there was only one thing Albus was using his priceless pensieve for, after all, and both knew it. “If that’s true…”

“If it is, we’ll know soon enough.” It was too late for immediate action now, and rushing anything would cause more problems rather than less. “What did you find out about the sabotage?”

“Precious little. The thing has returned to its home, and we can’t track it down from here.” Alastor scowled and rapped his staff on the stone floor.

“Not even with the genie’s name?”

“We do not have that. The deal was brokered in Greece by a wizard from the Ottoman Empire, who has since disappeared, or so it seems. Our representative never heard the thing’s name. And the Ottomans are damned uncooperative. They’re not even talking to us, they’re flat-out ignoring our requests.” Alastor still considered himself part of the Auror Corps. He probably would until his death.

“A pity. Cornelius might have been a bit too harsh in his latest missive to the Sultan. But then, he had good cause.” Albus grabbed a lemon drop. He did not offer Alastor any, his friend did not appreciate good sweets.

“Aye. We can’t have the Ottomans kidnap British tourists in the Mediterranean and let the Sultan claim ignorance of what ‘rogue elements’ might have done.” Alastor bared his teeth. “Might be time for another Intervention.”

“Impossible in the current climate.” None of Britain’s allies would risk war over a few kidnapped witches and wizards. Not unless their own enclaves were getting raided. But that hadn’t happened since the Intervention.

“Aye, pity.” Alastor snorted before returning to the topic. “Our saboteur has done his homework. He knew we had no alchemists among the healers on standby who might have recognized the oil and prevented the rest from making it worse with water spells. He knew the deal with the genie ended when the task ended, and he also knew that that would happen before the Champions had left the labyrinth. Finally, he managed to get Byzantine Alchemical Oil - quite rare and expensive.” Alastor sounded impressed.

“He could have learned that from the unfortunate clerk caught acting under an imperius.”

“No. That one didn’t know all that, I checked. Our saboteur had multiple sources. Either imperiused and obliviated, or bribed.”

“He will be hard to track either way.”

“He is, even though that shouldn’t be the case. Wizards that skilled are not a dime a dozen. There are not many who could pull this off in Britain, and even less who have the motive for it. Lucius and his old comrades come to mind, but even among them not many had that skill.” Alastor glared at Albus, as he usually did when talking about the Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban after the last war.

“It could be a foreigner as well. A mercenary.”

“Aye. I still think it’s one of ours though. My gut tells me so.” The grizzled ex-Auror patted his stomach. “Multiple layers, multiple traps and fail-safes. That’s not something you can do without intimate knowledge of how we operate. And how Hogwarts and the Ministry work.”

“I agree. But even with the current uproar, there is no chance to get a permission to interrogate some suspects. Not without at least something that points their way.” Albus spread his hands. When his friend opened his mouth, he raised one hand to stall him. “Before you say anything: Given how intelligent this saboteur has proven to be, any Auror acting on less than solid evidence might find out they just played into our unknown wizard’s hand. Even my reputation would suffer significantly should I accuse people without being able to deliver proof.” Or by forging proof. Especially after the winner of the Triwizard Tournament almost got killed under his nose.

“Which could be what our man is planning for.”

Albus nodded. “I will ask young Harry for a memory once Miss Granger has left the Infirmary.”

His old friend laughed. “You don’t want her to badger you to see the pensive, should she hear of it after the fact.”

Albus smiled ruefully. Miss Granger’s passion for arcane knowledge, especially when her Patron was involved, was a force to be underestimated at one’s own peril. After the events in his first year as a teacher, young Remus still checked his words before mentioning obscure spells. And given Harry’s protectiveness of his retainer - and maybe more, unless Albus was wrong about how their relationship was developing - trying to exclude her would alienate the young man. Something he, and Britain, could not afford right now, if his suspicions were correct.

*****

“Hermione!”

The witch in question had just enough time to put her book away before Luna Lovegood rushed to her side and grabbed her hands. “Merlin! Your hair!”

Hermione touched her still mostly bare scalp self-consciously. She wished she could have taken the hair-growth potion already, but Madam Pomfrey had forbidden that until her skin had finished growing back. Otherwise there was a chance that the potion would react with the treatment, and she’d end up with hair growing from the new skin as well as from her head. She winced at the image that conjured, then patted Luna’s hands, which had started to wander and poke various parts of her. “It’s OK. A potion will fix that before I leave the Infirmary.” She looked up and greeted the rest of her friends who had come to visit her. Behind them stood Harry. Their eyes met, and his smile, tinged with hope and sadness, once again made her want to rush towards him and hug him and...

“Evanesco!”

Hermione’s train of thoughts was interrupted by Luna trying to vanish her hospital gown. “Luna!”

“I need to check if all your skin has grown back correctly!” the blonde all but yelled while Aicha was pulling her back.

Hermione looked down and noted with some relief that while most of her right sleeve was gone, she was still decent. She looked up to glare at the culprit, but her rebuke died on her lips when she noticed that Luna was crying. “It has healed perfectly fine, Luna. Trust me. See?” She raised her right arm. “My arm was the worst, and it’s perfectly fine.”

The blonde witch muttered something about treacherous genies between sobs. Hermione exchanged a glance with Aicha, and the Ravenclaw released Luna, who immediately rushed to hug her, still crying. Hermione returned the hug, consoling her friend, but couldn’t help but feel guilty - Harry had to have been feeling even worse about her close brush with death. She glanced at him, briefly, while Aicha and Ginny were consoling Luna and Ron and Neville were trying to ignore the scene. He nodded at her, approving, and she felt better, but still far from well.

*****

Voldemort stood atop of a seaside cliff, looking out at the sea. He felt a touch of nostalgia. Back when he was still living at the orphanage he used this place to teach those who made the mistake of angering him the error of their ways. Back when he was just discovering his power. Back when he was just entering the Magical World. It was only fitting that this was where his return would be completed. He pulled out a small stone from his pocket and cast muggle-repelling wards. Then he canceled the spell on the rock.

The stone changed into the body of Barty Crouch Jr., his most faithful follower. Smart, driven, and utterly loyal, Barty had given everything for his Lord: His wand, his mind, his life, his soul. He had known he was very unlikely to survive the strain from the ritual, yet had still done it. As Voldemort had known he would. And now even Barty’s body would vanish, forgotten by everyone but Voldemort himself.

He had considered leaving Barty’s body at the ritual for Aurors to find. To have the body of a man who died in Azkaban years ago suddenly appear would have caused the Ministry, especially Barty’s father, quite the trouble. It would have been a fitting revenge for Barty. But it would have been too dangerous. Voldemort was not yet ready to challenge the Ministry, much less Dumbledore. Finding Barty’s body would have pointed at him, and not even the tampering he had done to the ritual site would have fooled Dumbledore for long. No, it was better for Barty to vanish, to leave no trace that could lead to him, until he had gathered enough followers, and gained enough power to secure his position.

Without further ceremony Voldemort pointed his wand at the corpse and set it ablaze. Fueled by his power the corpse burned to ashes in minutes. A flick of his wand, and the ashes were scattered into the sea. Below him was the well-hidden entrance to the sea cave he had discovered so long ago. Now it served another purpose. He thought about checking up on it, but shook his head. No need. It was after all just a trap for his enemies, no matter how unlikely they were to find it after the death of Regulus Black.

The dark wizard took out another, smaller rock, throwing it up and catching it again with effortless grace. His new body was perfect. Handsome, unravaged by the effects of dark rituals and more fights he wanted to remember, and utterly unlike his old looks. His Death Eaters would know him thanks to their mark, but others who knew Tom Riddle, or Voldemort, could pass him on the street and would never recognize him.

He turned away as the sun set. He had another, much smaller body to dump into a hag’s cooking pot in Knockturn Alley.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick rolled his eyes, staring at the devastation in front of him. Next to him his partner, Bertha Limmington, was already studying the remains, wand waving. She was a skilled witch, pretty too, but a bit too eager to work and not eager enough to play. With him, for example. “Guess the Faithful overdid it this time. I haven’t seen that much destruction since the day their former High Priest, old Ignatius, tried to resanctify the pitch of the Chudley Cannons.”

Bertha looked up at him, frowning. “This site was devastated by a ritual, not a fight between Quidditch fans and religious extremists.”

He sighed. She was really no fun. But she was the best to have at one’s back, so he had to take the good with the bad. “I know. I was joking.”

“Ah.”

“But whatever ritual it was, it didn’t leave anything standing. Even the altar is cracked and scorched, and whatever they had placed on it has been melted.” He poked with his wand at a piece of black, polished rock, which crumbled to dust at the touch.

“It turned most of the trees in the vicinity into kindling, too. Judging from the position of the remains, the wood was smashed against a barrier.” Bertha stood up and pointed at a broken branch near her.

“One hell of a barrier, to withstand that.”

“Muggles assume it was a tornado.”

“That the work of the forgetful squad?” Kenneth didn’t really like the Obliviators. One simply couldn’t trust wizards who spent their days altering memories, even if they were the memories of muggles. He had heard too many rumors of one or the other Obliviator using their skills on wizards or witches who caught their fancy.

“No, they came up with it themselves. Apparently, someone saw the storm.”

“Only the storm?”

“Yes. The muggle took shelter and only came out again once the storm had ended.”

“The only way to get this much power into a ritual, even on a site like this, is a sacrifice.” Kenneth was no expert, but no Auror was ignorant of the Dark Arts.

“A powerful sacrifice.” Bertha looked grim. She knew as well as him that there were very few sacrifices that were powerful enough for such effects. Either a magical animal like a Unicorn, or a wizard or witch.

“I am not about to accuse the Faithful of delving into the Dark Arts and sacrificing people. Let’s kick this upstairs.” Kenneth knew what happened to Aurors who made the wrong kind of enemies and couldn’t back up such accusations. Azkaban always needed guards to relieve those who burned out. He had stepped on a few toes already, and couldn’t afford any serious mistakes.

“Or downstairs. The Unspeakables might want to take a look at this.”

“Unless they were here when it took place.” Kenneth had heard all kind of rumors about what the Unspeakables did. And what they were. Such a ritual would fit right in.

“No trace of blood or bone. No body. No danger for muggles. Let’s report back.” The two Aurors apparated away, leaving the ruined site alone again.

*****

Harry Potter watched as Hermione stared at the potion in her hand. She was already wearing her new robe - ‘the unpranked one’, Sirius had called it when he handed it over. Harry didn’t think he wanted to know what Sirius had done to the other robes. He didn’t think he wanted Hermione to know either. “Something wrong with the potion?” He asked. Hermione’s head was still a mess of stubble and very short hair. The potion was supposed to fix that.

“Hm? Oh, just lost in thought.” His friend pulled the cork off and downed the potion. She shuddered and made a face at the taste, then started panting when hair suddenly started to grow rapidly on her head. The brown locks did not stop growing until they reached her hips and completely obscured her face.

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. Hermione raised her wand, pointed it at her head, and muttered an incantation he didn’t catch. Her hair shortened to its usual length, straightened some and, most importantly, styled itself so her face was visible. She conjured a mirror to check her appearance, despite having done the spell hundreds of times before.

“You look great.” She did, too.

“You’re not exactly objective.” She smiled at him, but with less mirth than he’d have expected, if not for the memory of what she was alluding to.

Neither of them had brought up that particular topic since. And yet, things had changed. Harry held out his hand to help her stand up from the bed she was sitting on. It was a polite gesture ingrained into him since years, but today, he almost hesitated, and when she took hold of his hand, he felt suddenly self-conscious.

Hermione didn’t grin at him, as she would have done a week ago, nor did she display the snobby, exaggerated attitude she sometimes used in private to make fun of the old-fashioned manners they had learned and practiced so thoroughly. She just smiled, almost shyly, and let her hand linger in his far longer than politeness required. Though when they approached the door leading out of the infirmary and she fell into her customary place half a step behind and to the side of him, he heard her mutter that she felt like Melinda Brockthistle, the heroine of one of the wizard novels from the last century she had read when studying manners. Harry grinned widely. That was his Hermione. Then they stepped out into the hallway and were Patron and retainer again.

*****

“Good evening, Mister Potter. Please have a seat.”

Dumbledore’s office never seemed to change, Hermione Granger thought while she followed Harry inside. Still as cluttered as the first time she had seen it, with those tempting books she was certain were not available in the library of the school, or even the Black Family Library. She managed not to let her gaze linger too long on them, though, and sat down next to Harry. The Headmaster was sitting behind his desk. Parchment and knick-knacks covered most of the polished wood. Alastor Moody was sitting at the wall and growled something one could consider a greeting, if one were generous. He was tapping his staff on the floor and staring at them with his natural eye while his artificial one rolled around. Hermione had gotten used to it, after he had filled in for so many lessons during the full moon.

“I am glad Miss Granger has recovered fully. That was quite a dramatic moment, at the end of the tournament.” Dumbledore smiled gently at the two of them, even as he was nominally addressing Harry as her Patron.

“Thank you Sir.” Harry bowed his head slightly, which Hermione copied as a matter of course.

“You gave us quite a scare. I have to apologize again for the lapse in security that allowed that horrible moment to happen. A tragic mistake that would have had the most grave consequences, if not for Miss Granger’s and your own quick thinking.” The Headmaster took a lemon drop from the bowl on his desk. Hermione briefly closed her eyes as she remembered the flames surrounding her, burning her, the horrible stench of her hair, her skin, smoldering… she clenched her hands, dug her nails into her thighs until it hurt to stop her thoughts. The nightmares were bad enough already.

From the way Dumbledore stiffened, he had noticed her reaction. He did not comment on it though. “I have asked you to meet me, Mister Potter, since there was a peculiar moment during the task, when suddenly, you started to bleed heavily from your forehead. From your famous scar, to be precise.”

Hermione saw Harry straighten up. She hadn’t heard about that scene. That didn’t sound reassuring, and his reactions told her he was about to claim he was fine, as usual.

Dumbledore didn’t give him the opportunity though. “I would like you to copy your memory of that moment, so we can study it and find out what caused it.”

“Donate my memory, Sir?” Harry sounded as surprised as Hermione felt. That was the first time she heard about such a thing.

“I have a special item, quite delicate and very, very rare, that allows me to store and study copies of memories. It’s called a pensieve, a gift from my friend Nicolas.”

Hermione had to close her mouth. To think what one could use such a thing, such an artifact for… if those memories could be stored, one could preserve the memories of the greatest minds of the Magical World, see lessons from the most famous teachers, or watch obscure spells be cast as often as needed until one could learn them…

“How do I do that, Sir? And how do I limit the memory to the exact scene you are talking about?” Harry’s question interrupted her fantasy, and made her realise what else such a thing could be used for. It was worse than Legilimency, in a way. If memories could be taken against one’s will… she resolved to study Occlumency with Harry over the summer, as a priority.

Dumbledore explained how to draw out a copy of the memory using one’s wand. Hermione took note that one could also remove the memory entirely, judging from his words - a useful trick to keep it secret, she thought, even from Legilimency… maybe even from oneself? She longed to study this pensieve. If she could copy it…

The silver strand that Harry drew out of his temple looked ethereal, flimsy even, as if a single gust of wind would disperse it. Dumbledore held out a vial, and Harry guided the memory into it.

“Thank you, Mister Potter. Please keep this secret, it might turn out to be very important.” The Headmaster slipped the vial into one of the pockets hidden in the yellow stars decorating his blue robes. Moody had remained silent so far, but stood up now. This seemed to be quite a bit more important than Hermione had thought - and Harry suddenly bleeding was very important to begin with, in her opinion!

“Might we see the pensieve, Headmaster? As much as this might require secrecy, it’s my memory, so I already know whatever you hope to find out.” Harry stood up, and Hermione hastily followed his example. She wanted to hug Harry for that - the opportunity to see such a marvelous artifact… she could barely conceal her glee when the Headmaster nodded.

“I think that would only be fair. Follow me please.” Dumbledore turned and stepped towards the door behind his desk, which presumably led into his quarters. Quarters they were about to enter!

The private living quarters of the greatest wizard of Britain looked the part. Where others might have had shelves, sometimes formed from the walls themselves on demand, Dumbledore’s quarters were cluttered with knick-knacks, clothes, books and exotic items, all floating around each other as if they were caught in a whirlwind, which had been slowed down to a gentle breeze. Hermione didn’t recognize even a quarter of things she saw. But she realised that there were far too many objects to fit inside the room.

As they followed Dumbledore the floating items gave way, only to reform their dance after them, looking like curious hovering birds. Dumbledore must have noticed her staring, since he smiled and explained: “In my life I have acquired far too many things even for a bottomless trunk armoire, so I needed a bottomless apartment.”

Hermione drew a sharp breath - she had never ever heard or thought of such an application of that spell. To live in such quarters...

The Headmaster looked at an alcove, and a small item floated towards it, set down and grew into a shallow stone basin which reminded Hermione of a bird bath covered in complicated runes and glowing slightly. She suppressed a giggle at the thought of Fawkes bathing there.

Dumbledore used his wand to remove another strand of memory from the basin, storing it in a vial, then poured Harry’s memories into the pensieve. After he touched a few runes with the tip of his wand, the glow intensified and a fine mist started to raise from it. “Lean forward and push your head into the mist, and you will find yourself inside the memory. Focus on pulling your head back, and you will leave it again.”

Hermione repeated the instructions in her mind several times. It would not do to get lost in Harry’s memories. As tempting as that thought might be, sometimes. She stepped next to Harry, whose face was tinted blue from the glowing basin. A short bow later she suddenly was in the labyrinth, facing an elemental - she was seeing through Harry’s eyes! His body, with her in it, moved by itself, and she smelled the air. Wet, fresh earth. She saw the elemental come towards her, saw Harry’s wand raise, and then suddenly, she was elsewhere.

_She was in the middle of a hurricane, wood, trees smashing against a glowing barrier. To her horror she saw a dead baby, cut open, on a stone altar, next to a another screaming baby that suddenly started to turn into a snake, a viper she noted, rapidly growing and … changing, Limbs sprouted, and the head changed, hair appearing… scales faded, replaced with skin… until a handsome man stood there, covered with blood. Another man, trembling and covered with bloody runes, was holding out a wand to him. Then she found herself surrounded, engulfed with earth. Just like…_

With a scream she pulled her head back and fell to her knees, panting, then vomiting on the floor until only bile was left.

Harry was there, rubbing her shoulders, keeping her hair back, whispering into her ears: “I am so sorry, Hermione. I should have known… it was my memory.”

“It’s not your fault”, she managed to mutter in response.

“I should have expected this. Please forgive my lapse and accept my heartfelt apologies,” Dumbledore apologized, but he did sound a bit distracted.

“We all should have expected that,” Moody added in his usual gruff voice. “But we saw what you suspected, Albus.”

“We did. Mister Potter, it might be best if you return to the Infirmary with Miss Granger. I think she, and you as well, could do with a calming potion, maybe even some dreamless sleep tonight. But please, do not tell anyone about what you saw. It is of the utmost importance that this is kept secret. Lives depend on it.”

Hermione vanished the vomit. She felt embarrassed about the whole situation, no matter how apologetic the Headmaster acted. But this… “It’s him, isn’t it? He’s back.”

She felt Harry stiffen. Both were staring at the Headmaster. Hermione wanted him to deny it, to reassure her that it was not true, but he didn’t. He only gave them a sad smile, and the barest of nods.

*****

Once the two teenagers had left his office, Albus Dumbledore sighed and sat down at his desk again. Alastor was already pacing.

“That was Barty Crouch Jr., a dead man,” the retired Auror stated. “I recognized him clearly. How is this possible?”

“That is a mystery yet. But I think we both know who the revived man is.”

“Aye. Only one Barty would go to such lengths for. He is back, then.”

“As I suspected.”

“What will you do now? Inform Fudge?”

“I doubt this is a good course of action. We only have a memory. And while I think I could persuade Cornelius, should I show him the pensieve, it is by no means a sure prospect. And it certainly would alert our enemy’s old and possibly new supporters that we witnessed his return.” Albus sighed. He did not like the course of action that he was persuading himself to take.

“You hope Potter will have more such visions, giving you more information. And you want to keep it secret from the Dark Lord so he doesn’t take steps to stop this.” Alastor knew him well.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you trust your pet spy anymore?” Alastor sneered, as he usually did when talking about Severus. He was almost as good at holding grudges as Severus was.

“He hasn’t been contacted by his former Master yet.”

“Or he has not told you about it.” Alastor still doubted the man’s loyalty. Albus didn’t think his friend would ever trust Severus.

“He informed me that the Dark Mark has grown stronger, more pronounced, again. But I think it would only be prudent to use as many ways to gather information on Voldemort as possible.

“You won’t tell your pet snake though.”

“No.” Albus trusted Severus, but only a fool would let a spy operating in the enemy’s camp, which Severus would hopefully soon be able to, know much of one’s own secrets.

“Good. Should I look into what Barty Sr. knows?”

“That might tip our hand, if he is compromised. But if he is, we need to know, or he’ll be able to do a lot of damage in the Ministry.” The thought that Barty Crouch Sr. might be a supporter or pawn of Voldemort… it was absurd, and yet… one could never be certain.

“I’ll be discreet.”

Alastor left through Albus’s floo, leaving the Headmaster alone with his thoughts and with the crushing weight of the responsibility today had placed on his shoulders.

*****

“Walden.”

The soft, almost melodic voice made Walden Macnair whirl around, wand appearing in his hand. Someone had broken into his home, without triggering any of his wards! He didn’t see anyone though - disillusioned?

“Quick reflexes. You’ve kept in shape.”

Walden turned towards the voice, now coming from his side, when suddenly pain worse than the Cruciatus he had once suffered filled him, drove him to his knees. His wand dropped from nerveless fingers and he screamed, throwing his head back.

“Yes. Your Master has returned.”

The pain stopped, and a tall, slender man stepped out of the shadows of his living room. It wasn’t the Dark Lord. He looked too different, too young. Before Walden could challenge the intruder the mark on his left arm burned, and he suddenly knew with every fiber of his being that he was facing the Dark Lord.

“Master.” Already on his knees, he bowed his head. He didn’t know how his Lord had returned, where he had been - dead, or hidden from any magic - but he had returned.

“Walden. One of my faithful. You didn’t deny me when I disappeared. You were not captured either. You hid.” The Dark Lord circled around him with slow, measured steps, tapping his wand - Walden recognised it at once - against the palm of his hand.

“Yes, Master. I hid, so I could serve you upon your return.”

“You hid, and waited, but never searched for me. Did you hope I would never return, never call upon you again to do your duty?” That voice brought back memories. Walden suddenly realised he might be killed here, now, for having offended his Lord.

“No, Master. I waited, to be ready to serve you again.”

“I see. You were lazy, weak even, without my guidance.” The Dark Lord sounded amused, but Walden could almost sense the danger. More than ten years had passed, and yet it felt like yesterday.

“Yes, Master.”

“I have need of a man in good standing in the Ministry, who has never ever been suspected of belonging to me, and who was not ambitious enough to act on his own.”

Walden was relieved, but didn’t show it. He would live to serve. He had met few, even among the Death Eaters, who could kill as easily as his Master. Many thought the Dark Lord killed on a whim, but Walden knew better. He knew all about killing, it was his daily bread, and the Dark Lord never killed on a whim. Each of his kills served a purpose.

Walden remembered his initiation. He had been young, barely out of Hogwarts, and looking for a purpose himself. He had followed the Dark Lord because his friends in his House had done so, but had not really understood what it meant, what it offered. Until the day he had received his Dark Mark. He would never forget that.

He had met the Dark Lord alone, just the two of them. And the muggle he had brought, but that vermin didn’t count. He had expected that he would have to kill the muggle, to prove his loyalty and dedication. Had psyched himself up for hours so he could do the deed without showing any hesitation or weakness. And the Dark Lord had gone and killed the muggle himself. A flick of his wand, and it was done. Burning the Dark Mark into his arm had taken far longer. Walden had bit his lip until it bled so he’d not scream, would not show a weakness, but when it was done Walden had understood what power was. Power over life and death. He had felt certain of his place in life for the first time in his adult life. A month later he had joined the Ministry, as an executioner. Killing suited him, as he had found out thanks to the Dark Lord.

“Rise, Walden. We have work to do.”

“Yes, Master.”

*****

“I still cannot believe that cursed mudblood survived! To think Matron Pomfrey would waste her efforts on such undeserving filth…” Draco trailed off while biting into a bread roll as if he was trying to kill it.

Pansy Parkinson glanced over at her nominal boyfriend. Draco had been lamenting Granger’s survival ever since the Headmaster had announced that the mudblood had fully recovered and would be leaving the Infirmary soon. It had become repetitive hours ago, so she tuned it out whenever she could.

Pansy hadn’t expected the mudblood to survive either when she had seen her ablaze, and heard her scream. She didn’t think it was just Madam Pomfrey’s efforts that saved her though. Granger was tougher than she had thought. She spotted Potter and his retainer enter the Great Hall, and studied them. There was no need to be subtle about it - everyone was staring.

Pansy kept observing the two during the meal, while making agreeing noises whenever Draco stopped his ranting to get another bite. She didn’t think the mudblood had escaped unscathed. And it was not just that the mudblood’s robes were looking drabber than before - she probably could not afford to replace the robe that had burned. No, something had changed between her and Potter. It was subtle, but it was there. They were not as close as before, a certain awkwardness, a hesitation, was there that had not been there before. Maybe she was hideously scarred from the fire and Potter did not want to touch her anymore, but felt guilty enough for her wounds to still do it? He just was the kind of boy who would act like that, even without the added push from being her Patron. Quite the difference to Draco, who’d drop her in a heartbeat, should something similar happen to her.

“Look at them, sitting there, gloating. To think such a mudblood-lover has actually won the Triwizard Tournament! A stain on every prior Champion!” Draco didn’t care that Hogwarts’ Champion had won, and the fact that many others in their house did care didn’t faze him in the slightest.

Pansy considered telling him her theory about the mudblood being scarred, but decided against it. Draco would not spread it subtly, but shout it across the hall. Potter would take offense, and things would escalate. Best case, Pansy would have to spend an evening consoling Draco, and with exams starting next week, she really had better things to do. Worst case… she didn’t know what the worst outcome was, not anymore. Potter had changed, Draco had changed. Pansy didn’t like it, didn’t like not knowing, but she’d rather not find out right now just how much they had changed.

*****

“Did you read this article? ‘The Faithful deny any involvement with a possible human sacrifice ritual in Western Wales, where an old holy site was destroyed by what seemed to be a tornado.’” Ron Weasley put down the Daily Prophet and looked at the others in their compartment.

Ginny and Neville didn’t look like they had heard him. They were talking about plants. Ron wondered how dense Neville had to be; his little sister was so transparent. As if she cared about plants past her grades in Herbology! Padma at least was interested, she had been reading the article together with him. Luna sniffed, demonstratively holding the latest issue of the Quibbler she was reading a bit higher. The blonde witch had calmed down after her scene in the infirmary, but she still seemed determined to keep an eye on Hermione, and Aicha had naturally followed her best friend. Which was why the compartment currently held eight instead of the regular six people. Not that Ron minded sitting so close to Padma.

“No, I haven’t. Can I borrow it for a moment?” Hermione held out her hand.

Ron handed the newspaper over without a thought. One did not come between that witch and something she wanted to read. He was about to turn back to Padma, asking about her exams - she was a Ravenclaw and loved to talk about such things as much as Hermione - when he noticed his friend freezing for just a second, and then showing the newspaper to Harry. Ron saw Harry’s expression turn grim for a second before his friend relaxed again.

The two had been acting odd since the tournament - odder than usual during the end of year exams, at least - but that had been understandable, given what they had gone through. This though… he met Harry’s eyes and raised his eyebrows, then looked at the Prophet. Harry looked at Ginny and Neville, then back at Ron and nodded subtly. Ron understood. He should have known, in hindsight, from what he had heard.

“Well, better they trash an old Druid place than the Cannons pitch!” he stated loudly. “Speaking of the Cannons, did you hear about their last game?”

He had to fight to keep his eager expression on his face when he saw Hermione ground her teeth. Well, he could honestly claim it would help keep the others from paying attention to that hint of Voldemort’s return. In addition to that, annoying Hermione with Quidditch talk was a bit of normality that all of them needed right now, in his opinion. And he could do with a bit of distraction from thinking about Voldemort’s return himself. For the first time ever in his life he was not looking forward to the Summer vacation.

*****


	12. Summertime

**Chapter 12: Summertime**

Hermione Granger woke up at home. At her parents’ muggle home, to be precise, in the room she had since she had been moved from her crib to a real bed. Her room. With full bookshelves, an old armoire (with books on top), a desk with her computer, a small portable stereo next to her bed, and a potted plant next to the window, a fern that would have died long ago if it had just been up to her to water it. Her electronic alarm clock was on the sideboard. Nine o’clock.

A casual observation of her room would have never revealed that a witch was living there. Her trunk had been stashed in the cupboard as soon as she had arrived yesterday evening, her robe - she still needed to replace it, or at least the spells on it - was in the armoire, which she really should expand one of those days. Her wand was sitting in her wrist holster, hidden under her pajama sleeve, and concealed by a spell. She wasn’t about to sleep without her wand ready, not with Voldemort back. She had to find a way to increase the security for her parents as well. Wards would interfere with electronics, but she had some plans to use spells to make the house safer and alert the DMLE and Harry in case of trouble. It wasn’t enough though.

And there was so much she needed to do before school resumed! Her homework was no concern, it would barely take her a day to finish it. But she needed to enchant her robe, to bring the protective spells up to par. She’d have to check Harry’s too, and update it. This was the most urgent task. Apart from the Occlumency lessons, which Sirius and Professor Lupin - Remus now - would give her, Harry, and Ron. Those would take time, though, and likely not be finished until long after they were back at school. And her experiments with wards and electronics. She was so close, she was certain she was on the right path. If she managed to get an electronic calculator or even a computer running at Hogwarts, that would allow her to break new ground in spellcrafting, too. But any time spent on those experiments would mean less time spent on using her computer now, during her vacation, to help with her other tasks. Decisions, decisions...

Hermione got up, blinking, and ran her hand through her hair, which had escaped her fading styling spells during the night. A quick flick and swish of her wand had it back in some semblance of a hairstyle other than ‘bird’s nest’, before she headed to the bathroom, skirting around the piles of newspapers and science magazines her parents had collected for her during her absence. She loved coming home from Hogwarts and catching up with what had happened in the world. It kept her grounded, sane, when she was forced to play the role of the dutiful muggleborn retainer of her pureblood Patron, cut off from her parents. When she was again a third-class citizen due to her birth, no matter how talented and skilled she was compared to everyone else. And yet, she thought with a wry smile, she would not want to lose the blanket permission to use magic at home that Harry had been able to grant her. Magic was just too convenient, and she really liked to look good with a flick of her wrist, instead of an hour spent with muggle cosmetics and hairstyling means. “Hypocrisy, thy name is Granger,” she muttered while she placed her pajamas on the rack in the bathroom and stepped into the shower.

Thirty minutes later she was sitting at the kitchen table with her parents, her hair perfectly styled thanks to a more complicated spell, and wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a Dr. Who motif on it. Both had been resized so they fit perfectly - in her opinion. Her parents might have disagreed, but after seeing what other witches her age wore in Diagon Alley, they had become far more reasonable about her attire.

“Have you already finished your movie schedule?” Hermione’s father asked after putting down the ‘Times’. He was an avid reader, not just of newspapers and magazines, and responsible for her name.

“I’ve got a preliminary one I’ll pass to Harry, so he can go over it.” Hermione answered primly. There were not that many good picks, in her opinion, but Harry might add some action movies. She didn’t mind that and had left a few slots open for the likeliest ones, though one had to keep up appearances. She was certain he’d want to watch ‘Braveheart’. She was looking forward to it herself, if only to see what Americans had done to British and Scottish history.

“Ah, Harry. How is he doing?” Her mother asked, a bit hesitantly. Hermione knew what she really wanted to ask, since she had filled them in about the events of the tournament on the drive back from King’s Cross - well, most of the events. Some details her parents didn’t need to know. Like how close she had come to burning to death. And the exact nature of her relationship to Harry, which was what her mother really wanted to know. And which Hermione didn’t know either, right then. Even if she knew what she wanted it to be.

“He’s doing well. He won the Triwizard Tournament as the youngest champion in centuries.” Hermione smiled, she was proud of her Patron.

“I bet the girls are throwing themselves at him.” Her father’s tone was slightly teasing. Only slightly. Her parents didn’t know just how much power Harry had over her, but they knew how close the two were, and had hinted a few times that Harry might be abusing what they saw as a massive crush on the boy who saved her life, given how quick and eager she always was to help him.

“Not yet. They’ll do that in our sixth year.” Hermione took a sip from her orange juice and nibbled on a scone. Not quite as good as those at Hogwarts, not that she’d ever say so to her parents.

“What?”

“Sixth year is when British wizards and witches traditionally start dating at Hogwarts.” Hermione wasn’t about to explain what really went on in the Year of Discovery. Her parents might have grown up in the 60s and 70s, but neither had been a flower child, nor wanted their daughter to practice free love, Woodstock style, at 16.

“Ah.” Her father even sounded relieved.

“And how do you feel about girls throwing themselves at Harry?” Hermione’s mother, on the other hand, was not so easily diverted. Hermione had inherited her single-mindedness in the pursuit of knowledge from someone, after all.

“That depends on just what kind of relationship Harry and I have by then,” Hermione answered with an unconcerned smile on her face that was not indicative of her current state of mind. Her mother raised her eyebrow, and the girl sighed and looked at her plate, where a half-eaten scone was all that was left of her breakfast. “I’d not like it.”

She had the undivided and full attention of both her parents now.

“And how does Harry feel about ... that?” Her mother asked.

Hermione didn’t want to lie to her parents. Not more than needed, in any case, to keep them from worrying, and from finding out that according to the law of Wizarding Britain they had lost custody of their only daughter to a boy younger than Hermione years ago when they tried to do something about their fears. She sighed again. “He wants us to be more than friends.”

Her parents stayed silent, other than taking some deep breaths and making noncommittal noises. She glared at them, knowing what they were asking, without stating it.

“I am not certain how I feel about him. I want us to be more than friends too, but… I want to be certain it’s more than just the result of … him saving my life, and us spending lots of time together.” The young witch almost spat the words out, her frustration with her own situation leaking into her tone.

“You want to be certain it’s true love?” her father asked in a teasing tone, which earned him an elbow and a glare from his wife.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and decided to vent some of her frustration. “Yes. If we end up sleeping together, I want to know if it’s out of love, or just a mutual attraction between friends.” When she saw the expressions of her parents, she hastened to add: “I don’t mean this summer, or this year.” The expressions didn’t change. Drat.

*****

Harry Potter stepped out of the Floo at No. 12 Grimmauld Place and relaxed. Spending the night at Privet Drive was not enjoyable. Even if he avoided his relatives completely by heading out before they even got up, he still felt guilty, knowing he caused them such troubles just by being a wizard. Not guilty enough to even consider removing the private Floo Sirius and Dumbledore had installed to connect his room at the Dursleys and his room here, though, even if he knew that the connection made his muggle family nervous. Well, his adult muggle family - Dudley was fine with magic. His cousin hadn’t had any bad experiences with it, of course. Unlike Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon.

Harry sat down on his bed and looked around his real room. A well-locked and protected room, given his magical family’s penchant for pranking. Not that he minded pranks, especially now - they took his mind off Voldemort’s return, and off his hope for a change of his relationship with Hermione. He sighed, sitting up on his bed. Sometimes he wished his friend was less smart. They’d be a couple already then, neither thinking about the possibility of being influenced by magic. Harry didn’t want to think about that, but with the genie out of the bottle… He hissed through his teeth when that saying brought back memories of the end of the tournament, Hermione on fire, screaming, hurting. He shook his head and tried to calm down before he had a flashback to the ritual that brought Voldemort back as well. He almost succeeded.

A bit later he was in the kitchen, watching Kreacher cook breakfast. Neither Sirius nor Remus were up yet, both having celebrated Harry’s safe return last night a bit longer and with more alcohol than Harry himself.

“Tea and scones for Master’s Godson,” Kreacher stated while a plate, a cup and pot appeared on the table.

“Thank you Kreacher. Did anything happen while I was at Hogwarts?” Harry didn’t expect a useful answer, but he still felt odd, sitting there with just Kreacher in the kitchen, and not making conversation.

“Master’s been bringing witches home. Lots of work cleaning up after them,” Kreacher grumbled, and Harry couldn’t tell if he was glad or angry about the work. Most elves would have been happy, but Kreacher was not most elves.

“Oh?”

That was news. Sirius had started dating again, then. Or the witches looking for a rich pureblood husband had started their attempts to catch him. Sirius was young still, after all, handsome - not that Harry would say that to his face - and had both roguish charm and a tragic history. ‘That combination will be irresistible for so many witches, the house will be under siege once they think it’s acceptable to pursue him again,’ Hermione had declared over Yuletide, with a pointed look at Harry, in case he had missed the fact that he too shared many of those traits.

“Yes. Master brought many different witches. Hard to learn what they want for breakfast, if they never return.”

That sounded more like Sirius was playing the field, instead of dating. At least as Harry understood it. He was no expert. But sooner or later, Sirius would settle down, that much he was certain of. For all his rebel attitude, his godfather longed to have a family, a big family. He deserved it, too. The young wizard wondered what his future ‘godmother’ would be like. He didn’t know what kind of witch Sirius prefered. Or what kind of witch he’d end up marrying.

He chuckled at that - here he was, unable to sort out his own love life, and yet speculating about his godfather’s.

“What’s so funny?” Speak of the devil. Sirius had appeared in the door, looking far too well for what he had drunk last night, and wearing a silken house robe with the Black crest embroidered over his heart, and on the back, in gold thread.

“Nothing.” Harry smiled at him.

“That usually means there is something. Want to talk about?” Sirius sat down, and his breakfast appeared on the table without any delay. Kreacher by now knew his master’s habits by heart.

Harry debated this. Sirius wasn’t the most mature adult he could talk about this with, but he was his godfather, and with the possible exception of Remus, there was no one else. And while Remus would likely be more mature about it, it would hurt Sirius if Harry talked about such matters with Remus, and not with him. And Sirius had been hurt more than enough already. Still… “Only if you promise not to tell anyone about this.” Asking Sirius to be serious would only lead to a bad pun, so he could only hope it wouldn’t be too bad.

“I promise,” Sirius answered at once.

“Not even as a prank.”

“I promise.”

Harry sighed. “Okay… It’s about Hermione.”

Sirius perked up as if he was a starving dog who had just been shown a juicy steak. ”Did something happen between you two?”

“No. Yes. Sort of.” Harry sighed, then held up a hand when Sirius opened his mouth. “Let me explain before you speculate what we might have done, and we get side-tracked.” He waited until Sirius nodded, then continued. “I told her I love her. Well, I almost did, but she understood what I was about to say, so it’s close enough.”

Sirius was frowning. “That sounds like she wasn’t happy about your declaration. Did you check her for love potions or compulsion spells?”

“We were in the infirmary. I am sure Madam Pomfrey would have noticed either.”

“I don’t understand then. I was sure she loves you.” Sirius looked puzzled. “Did someone else get her while you were dithering?” Harry wasn’t exactly sure what ‘dithering’ meant, but he understood the gist.

“No. She’s afraid that the both of us are under the influence of the Patron Oath, or the life debt, or both, and that we’re not really in love.” Harry sighed, hunching his shoulders.

Sirius slid over and wrapped an arm around him. “Well, she’s wrong. Magic can’t do that, I told you that before.”

“Tell that to her!” Harry shot back. “On second thought… no, don’t.” He didn’t want to know what Hermione would do if Sirius tried to educate her - his godfather’s mouth had a tendency to be faster than what his brain could keep up with. “But there are love potions, lots of them.”

“Harry, if either of you were under the influence of a love potion, you’d have noticed, trust me. They’re only called ‘love potions’ because ‘lust potions’ was not acceptable back when they were invented. If you were under the influence of say, Amortentia, then you’d have shagged Hermione silly each night at Hogwarts, and would likely be starting to live out all those kinky fantasies you have had about her by now.” Sirius showed him a grin that was both toothy and leering at the same time.

“Sirius!” Harry shrugged off the arm of the older wizard.

“Don’t tell me you don’t have fantasies about her. You’re a healthy young man, and you’ve got some Black blood in you.” Sirius chuckled. Harry glared at him, but didn’t protest further, which made his godfather laugh.

“It’s completely natural, Harry. If you and Hermione had been raised in the Magical World, you’d not have such concerns at all.”

“If we’d both been raised in the Magical World, we’d not be together like we are!” Harry shot back.

“That’s true. And you’d have to deal with her Head of Family.”

“Can we get back to Hermione’s fear?” And his own fear, though he didn’t want to mention that. “And how I can help her?”

“Sure, sure. We can revisit your fantasies and how to make them come true afterwards.” Sirius held up his hands in a placating gesture when Harry snarled at him. “Pax, Harry! I just want you to lighten up some. It’s clear you two have the hots for each other. You’re better off than most others wondering if their crush loves them back enough to put out.” Sirius coughed, probably noticing Harry’s expression. “Anyway. Hermione is just insecure. She probably thinks she’s not pretty enough for you, and that you’re only after her because of magic, and not because you want into her pants.”

“Hermione is one of the prettiest girls in school!”

Sirius smiled at him. “Your mother was the hottest girl in school, and she said she felt like an ugly duckling - whatever that means - for years, after meeting all those witches who already had cosmetic spells on them when she arrived at Hogwarts. Such impressions tend to linger. I used to have quite the success in teaching witches that they were prettier than they thought, back at Hogwarts.” Sirius had a dreamy expression for a second. “But, back to your witch. She’s had those huge beaver teeth, right, till second year or so?”

Harry didn’t deign that with an answer. He did twitch though.

“Right. Anyway, she probably felt really ugly compared to the Patil twins, or that bubblehead Greengrass. And other witches will have made certain that she was reminded of that regularly. You’d know that as well, if you’d ever followed my example and placed some enchanted mirrors in the girl’s bathrooms.”

“What?” Whenever Harry thought his godfather couldn’t shock him anymore, he was proven wrong. Did he peep on Harry’s mother?

“Err, don’t spread that, right? They found the mirrors after two weeks, but never found out who put them there. Anyway, she just needs time to realise that your feelings for her are genuine, and not magical. Not that kind of magical, at least.”

“So, you think I’ll just have to wait?” It couldn’t be that easy, Harry thought. Things never were.

“Yes. Just wait, help her realising she’s pretty now, and before you realise it you’ll have to tell Kreacher to widen your bed in your room and get the toys from the attic!”

“Sirius!”

“Unless you prefer the toys from the dungeon.”

“SIRIUS!”

Laughing, Harry’s godfather fled from the kitchen before Harry could hex him. When he sat down at the table again, he had to admit though that he felt much better than before the talk. Sirius was right - he and Hermione were in love, and she just needed to realise that. This was shaping up to be a very good day.

“Kreacher will have to polish the cage then, so it’ll be ready when Master’s Godson needs it for Master’s Godson’s Slave.”

Or not. Maybe he should talk to Remus too.

*****

“How was your first week at home?” Hermione Granger asked, walking next to Harry down the street towards the movie theatre. The young witch was happy. She had dressed up just a bit - short skirt, close to a mini, and matching blouse with just the right amount of cleavage shown, heels - and Harry had complimented her quite nicely for it. He might just be influenced by magic to make her happy, but it was working.

Hermione glanced over. Her friend was wearing jeans and a t-shirt under a light jacket with sneakers. All expensive brands. Someone at Gringotts had made a mint changing galleons from the Black Vault. It was money well spent, in her opinion. She moved closer to Harry and slipped her arm into his.

“It was good, mostly. Kreacher’s doing better, Remus and Sirius are relaxing, now that the tournament and school are both over.” He didn’t mention the Dursleys, and Hermione didn’t ask. She knew how they felt, about Harry and herself, and while there were quite a few people she’d like to be afraid of her, seeing people she had never done any harm cringe when she entered their house hadn’t felt right.

“That’s nice to hear, but you said ‘mostly’.” Hermione wanted to know what was not going well for Harry, so she could fix it.

“Ah, yeah. Sirius has started dating.” Harry sighed.

“Oh. Is she nice?” He was probably jealous, Hermione thought, for not having the full attention of his godfather anymore. Understandable, if a bit selfish - but her Patron deserved to be selfish, after last year.

“Who?”

“The girl Sirius is dating.” Hermione narrowed her eyes. Harry was usually not that dense, but maybe her blouse was providing a greater distraction than she had planned.

“That doesn’t narrow it down.”

“Oh.” Hermione understood. She shouldn’t have expected Sirius to settle down yet, she berated herself. “How many?”

“So far there was a new girl each morning.”

“That’s not dating, that’s womanizing!” Hermione frowned. If that dog gave Harry the wrong ideas…

“Yes. But… he has been in prison for over a decade. I can’t blame him for trying to catch up.” Harry smiled ruefully. He did love his godfather, Hermione knew, and had a hard time seeing his faults.

“You’re right. As long as he doesn’t string them along.”

“He isn’t… I think. At least he’s not doing anything worse than what they are planning.”

“Probably mostly gold diggers.” Mostly, but not all of them, she assumed. “How’s Remus taking it?” He was the responsible adult in the household, after all.

“It’s close to the full moon, so he’s not doing well.” That would explain it.

“So, you’ve got no future godmother yet.”

“No. You’re still the only witch in the house. When you’re there.” Harry smiled at her, but his tone made it a question, as well as a statement.

Hermione sighed. “My parents were prying into our relationship, and I lost my temper and tried to shock them. It took a while before they were convinced I did not really plan to sleep with you this week.” She frowned at her friend when he started chuckling. “I got a lecture on safe sex too; they said they didn’t want to become grandparents just yet. As if I didn’t know all about safe sex already! And I use magical protection anyway!”

“Oh…” Harry was chuckling again, and she briefly elbowed him in his ribs. “Oof. At least you didn’t get the safe sex talk from Sirius.”

“I’d have thought he’d teach you the contraception charm, and that was it.” Hermione also expected him to hand Harry a coupon for St. Mungo’s, but she didn’t want to go there.

“His lecture involved safe words.”

“Ah.” Hermione hoped she was not blushing as much as she felt like. That was some fuel for her imagination she didn’t need.

“Yes. Apparently the library at Grimmauld Place also has a few books on the matter.” He was looking ahead at the movie theatre, avoiding her eyes, but he was grinning. Teasing her. Probably noticed her blush.

“I’ll make sure to study them carefully,” she said in her most serious tone, and managed to keep from laughing until he had stumbled and was staring at her.

“You should aim your wit at Sirius, not at me,” he said, pouting.

“I am going out with you, not with your godfather.” She tensed up. That was a bit too close to the topic they still were not touching.

“So, your parents don’t have problems with you visiting me unsupervised anymore?” Her friend was not changing the topic, merely nudging it a bit away from that particular minefield.

“No. Though if they knew Sirius as well as we do, that would not be the case. Even with Remus there.” Hermione didn’t think telling her parents that there was a very respectable werewolf in the house would do much to make them feel better. “But when you visit, they might keep a closer eye on us for a while.”

They walked the rest of the way to the movie theatre chatting about the latest hits and the TV series they had missed. Hermione really needed to find a way to deal with the interference from wards that wrecked electronics. Even if the lack of such distractions made studying easier. A bit. Then she pushed the thoughts aside. She was here to enjoy a movie, and immerse herself in muggle culture. With Harry at her side.

*****

“It was a superb dish, Amelia. My heartfelt compliments.”

Sirius was right - the course just served at dinner at the Manor of the Bones family had been excellent. “I have to agree with my godfather, Madam Bones. It was excellent,” Harry Potter said.

Susan beamed at him while her aunt nodded graciously. It was an almost intimate dinner, just the two Bones, Harry and Sirius. Fewer than six people at a dinner party with three Heads of Families would have been unheard of, before Voldemort. A dozen would have been the minimum, with the spouses of the heads, and the heirs and their spouses expected to attend the occasion as well. These days, it was still exceptional. The Potter, Bones and Black families had been hit harder than any other families. Any other families that had survived, to be precise.

The entertainment had been solid, if not spectacular. A Sword Dancer from the Ottoman Empire - with significant dervish blood, their host had explained. It had been an impressive performance, exotic and skillful, but… it was paid entertainment. Understandable, since Amelia Bones had a very demanding position at the Ministry and most families did the same, but it was not very personal. Harry also had missed Hermione whispering tidbits of information into his ear. He would have brought her, but that would have been a faux pas. Like showing up with your mistress instead of your wife. He almost snorted when he considered that most assumed Hermione would be, or already was, his mistress. They didn’t know her. He was already looking forward to the trip abroad to France, and then to Bulgaria. It would be just him, her, and Sirius. And hopefully no worries about her future status.

A house elf served more wine. Harry stopped him from filling his own glass. He wasn’t expected to talk politics as a minor, but he wanted to keep a clear head. Especially given what he knew about Voldemort. So far he had been lucky - Madam Bones and Sirius had handled most of the dinner conversation until now.

“Would you like another wine?” Madam Bones asked with a slight concern audible in her voice.

Harry shook his head. “Thank you, Madam Bones, but plain water will suffice. I fear I drank my fill already.” An instant later a glass of water appeared next to his plate.

“Susan told me you were a serious young wizard, for your age.”

“I try to live up to my duties.” Harry nodded at Susan and at her aunt.

“I keep telling him he should loosen up some, but he doesn’t listen. In that, he is a typical teenager.” Sirius laughed at his own remark, and Harry saw Madam Bones chuckle slightly. The stern witch was a marked contrast to Sirius, but they seemed to get along.

“There’s always sixth year,” Susan spoke up, grinning at Harry. He smiled back, not quite sure if she was implying more than the obvious.

“I think Harry might remain more reserved than most even during the Year of Discovery.” Sirius didn’t sound as disapproving of the prospect as he usually did at home, which confused Harry some.

“We’ll see.” Susan was winking at him. She had had more wine than he had, he noticed, but not too much. Unless she was what Sirius called a lightweight. But the implications were quite clear now, and Harry had to suppress the first answer that came to mind. Susan was a friend of his, and had done nothing to offend him.

“It’s still a year away. A lot can happen in that time.” Harry tried to sound as noncommittally as possible.

“I’ll just have to team up with Hermione.” Susan giggled. She was wearing a low-cut thin robe, he had noticed before, with floating patterns that kept forming her house crest, breaking up, and reforming it again, drawing attention to her chest, which was quite ample for her age.

Harry coughed. Her remark made him imagine scenes he was quite sure were not very likely, unless a lot happened this year. He wasn’t sure if Susan wanted to be his mistress, the lover of both him and Hermione, or if she was just teasing him. He managed another vague answer before Sirius steered the conversation back to the Wizengamot. Harry was grateful - with his and Hermione’s relationship still… unconfirmed, he was not really up to discussing it with anyone. Especially not without her being present. The talk with Sirius was a special case.

Part of him wished he’d have drunk more wine. The other part wished he had not drunk any. That one sounded like Hermione’s voice in his head, so he listened to it.

*****

“It’s a madhouse.”

Harry sounded slightly shocked, Hermione Granger thought. Honestly, what did he expect, after inviting the entire Weasley family (apart from the three eldest sons) to dinner? A quiet affair, as he had described the dinner at Bones Manor?

“It’s your house,” she answered.

Harry had left the dining hall to fetch a muggle magazine from his room for Mr. Weasley, and Hermione had exercised her retainer’s privilege, as she liked to think of it, to come with him, in case he needed assistance. Merlin knew she needed the break as well. It was a formal invitation, so manners had to be observed as if they were in public. Which meant she was not Ron’s best friend, like when she and Harry visited the Weasleys, but Harry’s retainer. It wouldn’t have been bad, but for the twins and Sirius and Remus hitting it off, and starting to compare notes and spells. And demonstrating them. As long as Sirius, the host, was not only condoning the scene but actively participating, there was nothing Mrs Weasley could do to rein in the twins, not without giving offense to Sirius. And, since it was a formal affair, Hermione couldn’t do anything either, not without embarrassing Sirius and Harry. Which was where the need for a break had originated. Harry could have done something, though.

“It’s Sirius’s house.”

“Your point?” Hermione giggled at his expression, which made him smile.

“I can intervene, I guess.”

Hermione shook her head. “You’d just end up a target for the next demonstration, and Mr. Weasley is looking forward to reading the magazines you mentioned.” Which likely wouldn’t survive such an event unscathed.

“Well, it’s entertaining. And educational.” He must have noticed her expression, since he hastily added: “In an immature, inappropriate way, of course.”

“It’s not quite inappropriate, but certainly immature.” She couldn’t keep from grinning though. “Now just imagine if the Lovegoods were not on their yearly expedition, and could have come as well…”

“Thank the Gods for small blessings!” Harry sounded as fervently as a member of the Faithful at that moment. While he searched for the magazine with the article he had mentioned to the head of the Weasley family in one of the chests in his room, Hermione waited at the door and let her thoughts wander. Could she live like this, always Harry’s retainer in public, even in the company of friends? Invitations in her, Harry’s home, she only could attend if she could provide entertainment? Could she stomach such a future?

“Ah, there it is!” Harry held up the magazine he had been searching for, and beamed at her as if he had just found a new spell. Hermione shook her head slightly. She knew she didn’t want to imagine a future without him.

*****

The wards protecting Malfoy Manor were quite extensive. Far stronger and older than those pitiful shreds covering Macnair’s home. Lord Voldemort knew he could break through them, but it would take a while - long enough for the residents to alert the Ministry. Once, the wards would not have stopped him, but the changes caused by his resurrection were too extensive. Fortunately, he didn’t have to break through the wards, or approach dear Lucius in Diagon Alley to contact the wizard. It was not as impressive as waiting in Lucius’ own study for him, and it carried a bit more risk, but it would suffice.

The Dark Lord left his vantage spot near the manor’s boundaries and apparated to the middle of a clearing in a small forest in Wales, where Macnair was waiting. “Your arm.” His follower hastily raised his left arm and exposed the Dark Mark. He was not quite trembling, but Voldemort could see the nervousness and fear the Death Eater was trying to hide, and smiled before jabbing the point of his wand into the mark and concentrating.

“Go now, Walden. I will contact you once I have finished my business. Do not hunt until then.”

“My Lord.” The other man bowed, his relief and resentment at the order as imperfectly hidden as his earlier fear, and apparated away. He was an enthusiastic tool, a killer, but after more than a decade away from the Dark Lord’s control, Macnair had to learn again that everything he did was at Voldemort’s pleasure.

The reborn Dark Lord disillusioned himself, and stepped a bit away from the centre of the clearing. In the past it had been a holy place of Celtic Druids. Roman wizards had put an end to their rituals here, but the magic was not completely gone: no trees had grown in the clearing since. It was a fitting site for him, who would restore the ancient glory of Wizarding Britain.

Voldemort didn’t have to wait long until a faint popping sound announced the arrival of another wizard, behind an old tree. He had expected that. “Step up!” he commanded, though he moved to the side as soon as he had spoken, still hidden by his spell. One could never fully trust one’s followers, after all, after they had been out of control for over a decade they might have gotten ideas above their station.

After a few more seconds, a figure appeared at the edge of the clearing. Unlike Macnair, this one wore no silver skull mask, nor the pitch black robe of a Death Eater. A dark grey cloak with a hood hid his identity, but the Dark Lord could feel their connection.

“Crucio.”

He didn’t have to say the words, but it added to the strength of the spell. He didn’t have to aim, or even point his wand, not with the Dark Mark burned into the man’s arm. While the wizard collapsed, screaming and thrashing on the ground, Voldemort canceled his disillusionment and stepped forward. He did not stop the curse until his boots were just a foot away from his victim’s head. “Greetings, Lucius. Did you forget during my absence what the signal I sent you meant?”

Lucius Malfoy stared up at him, pain and shock plainly visible on his face, his lips moving without words being heard.

“You were to appear in the clearing and wearing your robe and mask, Lucius. Not skulk around in the woods garbed like an assassin.” He had known Lucius would not do that, of course - the man was far too cautious to show his hand, after more than a decade of freedom.

“Forgive me, M-master. I f-feared an a-ambush.” Malfoy was shaking, but managed to get up enough to kneel. He would have an excuse ready, of course. He always did.

“You honestly thought someone else would be able to use the mark that ties us together to prepare an ambush? You doubt me so much?” Not that his excuses always worked.

“F-forgive me, M-Master!” Lucius pressed his head into the ground, his long blond hair covering the grass. He was still trembling, both from the lingering effects of the spell, and the shock of the Dark Lord’s return, no doubt.

“Why should I, if you think so little of me to defy my orders so blatantly?” Voldemort moved his wand in a lazy motion. It was so tempting to torment the wizard further, debase him, but he needed the man, and his gold. “Others held their head high and went to prison in my name. You denied all ties to me, and claimed to have been my victim.”

“I… I have worked for the cause, M-master. I cultivated contacts, gained influence in the Ministry. Raised my son to follow your ideals. Command me, and reap the fruits of a decade’s labor!” The blonde wizard was panting. “I did not surrender, nor give up, but worked for you, even while you were absent.”

“And you feel this excuses your wavering faith in me?”

“Forgive me, Master! I did what I could do, what I did best, to serve you.”

Theatrically sighing, Voldemort turned away, but kept the man in his field of view. Staring at the edge of the clearing, he spoke: “While I have others more faithful than you, and more obedient, it would be a waste to not use your own talents and influence.” Turning his head back at the man, who was staring up at him with raw hope in his eyes, he nodded. “Provided you will not lapse again.”

“Never, my Lord!” Lucius smiled weakly, through the pain and fear still holding him in their grip.

“Never again, you mean. Do not presume to be able to fool me. I know what you did, three years ago.” He smiled coldly at the paling, groveling wizard. “Even if you did not know what you were doing. Or did you?”

Lucius shook his head. “I did not know, Master.”

He probably had not known anything more than what Voldemort had told him back before that cursed night at Godric’s Hollow, that the diary was a cursed muggle object, a trap for mudbloods and blood traitors.

“And yet you used it, ignorant of its nature, to further your political aims. I expected better of you, Lucius.”

It wasn’t a terrible loss. That diary had been the result of his foolish, youthful enthusiasm, back when he had just started to delve into the real Dark Arts. It was even embarrassing, in hindsight - he had done so much more once he had truly understood its nature. A talking diary, with a copy of his teenage mind and a sliver of his soul… He would have had to kill whatever had come of it himself, he guessed, if Dumbledore had not taken care of it. And his old foe likely was chasing a false trail now. But his basilisk slain by Potter and that buffoon Lockhart… that was a loss.

“Forgive me, Master!” Lucius was getting repetitive. No reason not to do the same.

“Crucio!”

He let the man suffer a bit more - not enough to damage his body or mind, of course. Malfoy was too useful.

This time it took longer until the blond man was able to speak and move again. Voldemort savored every second. “Now that I can trust you not to make such a mistake again, I forgive you.”

“T-t-thank you M-m-master! Th-thank you!”

“Now return to your home. To your family. Young Draco is back from his fourth year, right? A promising child, I think. Though not yet strong enough to be taken into confidence.” Only a fool would let children know crucial information. Unless one wanted such information to spread.

“Y-yes, M-master!”

“Go home, and work on weakening Dumbledore’s influence on the Ministry. Make sure that my return remains a secret. Do not fail me again, Lucius.”

“I w-will n-not, M-master!”

“I will call you again.”

The trembling wizard managed to apparate away without splinching himself, and Voldemort was alone again in the clearing. Once, before, it had served for meetings with his inner circle. It would serve again.

*****

Albus Dumbledore smiled at the various wizards and witches gathered in the - magically expanded - cottage near the coast of Dover. The place had served as a safe house in the War with Voldemort, and he had hoped it would not have to serve the same purpose again. But Voldemort had returned from death, and so it was time to revive the Order of the Phoenix. He almost lost his smile when he took in just how few had survived that war, and how they had changed since they had last gathered. It had been but a bit more than one decade!

There was old, and there was experienced, of course. But he feared many of those present had just grown old, and not experienced, in the peace they had enjoyed until now. A peace that, unknown to them, had ended. Some of them would already know what he was about to tell them. The attack on the World Cup had been the first sign. Others would not want to know, but had to.

He coughed, and the conversations among those present fell silent as everyone turned towards him, standing at the head of the conjured table. “My friends, I thank you all for accepting my invitation. Many of you will wondering why I have called you to this gathering. Some may already suspect the reason.” He glanced at Alastor. “I wish I had better news to share, but the truth is, grave times are ahead of us.”

He waited a bit, until the whispers that had started had died down again. “You remember the attack on the World Cup last year, rumored to be the work of Death Eaters. The sabotage of the Triwizard Tournament that almost claimed the life of the Boy-Who-Lived.” He nodded apologetically towards Sirius, who was sitting at the end of the table with Remus.

“Neither crime has been solved so far. The culprits behind those events have not been caught. They will be emboldened by this, and I fear they will continue, or even expand their activities.” Some of his friends - Sirius, Remus, Hestia, Emmeline, Kingsley, Minerva and of course Alastor nodded grimly, but others, Molly, Arthur, Dedalus, and Elphias gasped in dismay. Mundungus looked like he was about to faint. “We will have to be on our guard. While we do not know who is behind the attacks, and what their goals are, the events are clearly aimed at causing fear among the population, and painfully remind us of how the last war started.” That started even more whispers.

“The Death Eaters are back!” Dedalus exclaimed.

Albus nodded at him. “Some of them might have donned their old robes again.”

“Should have killed them all after the last war!” Alastor growled.

“I do hope this is nothing more than a few vile individuals lashing out in an attempt to satisfy their own urges, but we cannot exclude the possibility that this is a more organized effort.” He couldn’t tell them he knew Voldemort was back, not without risking Harry’s connection becoming known to Voldemort. As long as the Dark Lord believed his distraction had succeeded he would not be as careful, and might make mistakes. “Which is why we need to prepare for the worst.”

“You mean… You-Know-Who…?” Emmeline trailed off, and more people gasped.

Albus hated lying to his friends, but this secret was too important to be revealed just to be honest with them. If Voldemort learned that Albus already knew about his return he’d adjust his plans accordingly, and they would lose a big advantage. And, there were ways to make even the staunchest of his friends talk. He had to suppress a shudder at the memory of the fate the Longbottoms had suffered.

He nodded. “All the signs point to followers of his acting out of their own volition.” All the signs Voldemort had placed, no doubt. “And yet, that does not mean they are not dangerous. We all know that many claimed to have been under the Imperius in the last war who might not have been under such duress. Many other Death Eaters never were caught and remained hidden. They will not have forgotten what they did in the war, nor how they did it.”

Albus saw his friends take heart. Voldemort was terrifying, but Death Eaters? They had dealt with them in the past. Whispers started up again, but more confident. Even vengeful. He exchanged a glance with Alastor, who had expected that. “Please do not act rashly. All we can do right now is to be careful, make sure our homes and families are protected, and keep our eyes open.”

“Aye. And you better start getting back into shape. You lot got lazy and soft. A fourth year student could take out half of you I’d say.” Alastor bared his teeth at the Order members. A number glared back, or scoffed, but others looked away.

Alastor was right - with a few exceptions, namely the grizzled former Auror himself, and the active Aurors, they had grown softer. And neither Alastor nor himself were getting any younger either. There was no way around it - they needed more wizards and witches skilled at fighting. “That, and recruiting more members for the Order. The more we are, the better we can protect each other.”

“Do we know what the Death Eaters are after?” Kingsley asked.

“Not at this point. The attacks on the World Cup and the Tournament seemed meant to cause terror among the population, and make them question the competence of the Ministry and Hogwarts, but this year is lacking such high-profile events.”

“Apart from Quidditch matches.”

“I am certain the DMLE will guard those.” Especially after Albus had voiced some of his concerns to Amelia.

“The Boy-Who-Lived was present at both occasions.” Kingsley was sharp.

“It is not unfathomable that some followers of the Dark Lord want to avenge him, but trust me when I say that his security is taken care of.” Albus nodded at Sirius and Remus.

“If they come after the boy we can use that to prepare an ambush.”

Not that sharp, Albus thought. At least Remus managed to hold Sirius back from hexing Kingsley.

“Be on your guard, and keep your eyes open - for suspicious activities, as well as potential recruits and allies. This may turn out to be just a scare, but I would rather feel like a fool and laugh at our fears in a year, than attend a funeral.”

On that sombre reminder, the meeting broke up and the Order members left. Alastor stayed.

“Fat load of good that’ll do us. Whole lot has gone soft.”

“Mundungus has good contacts in Knockturn Alley. If Voldemort or his followers are making waves, he’ll pick it up. And Kingsley will keep us informed about all that the Aurors find out.” Albus smiled with more confidence than he felt. Mundungus had not been brave in his youth, and had not grown braver since. He still tried to do the right thing, but his fingers slipped ever so often.

“Without more skilled wands that will just mean that we can see what’s coming, but won’t be able to do something about it.”

“Voldemort too will not have many wands. He cannot trust all his former followers not to betray him. Not after Karkaroff.”

“What about your pet spy?”

“He has not yet reported any contact.”

“‘Not yet reported’, you say.”

“Yes.” Severus had proven himself in the war, but… people changed. It had been over a decade since Lily had died, and the young Potions Master had not shown any affection for anyone else. That was not a good sign. He was so full of anger, and loathing… Albus would have to keep an eye on him.

*****


	13. Foreign Shores

**Chapter 13: Foreign Shores**

“Drat!”

Harry Potter took care not to react in any way to Hermione’s cursing, nor to the sound of sparks getting set off, or to the smell of burning plastic that started to fill the room he and his friend were in at No. 12 Grimmauld Place. He hadn’t kept an exact count, but that had been close to half a dozen calculators that had been sacrificed for Hermione’s experiments today, and he knew from experience she would be getting angrier with each failure to shield the electronic devices from the effects of the wards on the house. At least she was making some progress, or so she claimed.

That both of them had had quite a stressful week behind them, and could look forward to another one, only made his friend’s temper worse. It couldn’t be helped though - with the upcoming trip to France and Bulgaria and the need to learn Occlumency, their usual summer schedule was more crammed than usual this year. 

Without turning his head away from the treatise on mind shielding techniques he had been skimming in preparation for today’s lessons with Sirius and Remus, he glanced over to Hermione. She had pulled the fried calculator apart and was checking the runes she had edged onto the casing, muttering while she made notes with a dictaquill. He spotted a stray lock that had escaped her ponytail and was hanging in front of her face. The witch did not seem to have consciously noticed it yet and was unsuccessfully trying to blow the distraction away from her field of vision while she worked. It was an adorable sight. Then she started to brush it back with her left hand, without any success at keeping it away from her face. After repeated attempts, she finally huffed and used her wand to restore her hairstyling charm without taking her eyes off her experiment. That was the witch he knew so well, and loved so much, in a nutshell.

He let his eyes linger over her for a bit longer - she was wearing a tank top and jeans today, with her robe draped over her chair, in case someone visited the house - before returning his attention to his book. Or trying to. Hermione was on his mind a lot these days. Between enchanting her and his robes, learning Occlumency, her experiments, and running arithmantic calculations on her computer at the Grangers’ for spellcrafting projects, the young witch hadn’t had time to look further into the intricacies of the Patron Oath. Or so she had claimed - he wasn’t certain, but he had the impression she was afraid, on some level, to find out exactly what the Oath did. He wouldn’t press her though. Sirius and Remus had agreed that pressing his friend in this matter would not be helpful. She’d have to work through this herself. He only hoped it would happen soon. He sighed.

“Harry? Is something wrong?” Hermione looked at him with concern clearly visible on her face.

He didn’t want to tell her what he had been thinking about, so he quickly made up something. “No, no, I am just a bit stumped with this passage here.” Harry pointed at the page he had been staring at for ten minutes now, without really reading it.

“Oh? Let me see, I read the treatise two days ago and found it quite sound.” 

With that, his friend came over to him and leaned against his back to look over his shoulder at what he had been pointing at. He should have been used by now to such close contact, but he still had to struggle to focus on her explanation, instead of her body pressed into his back, and her head so close to his that he’d only have to turn his cheek a bit to plant a kiss… he really had to struggle to follow her.

*****

“I said ‘no’, Draco, and that is final.”

“But Father! We had plans! I was looking forward to it all year!” Draco Malfoy wasn’t whining. He was asking - no, demanding - an explanation for his father’s sudden bout of … whatever it was that had caused him to cancel their plans for the summer.

“Draco, circumstances have changed. We cannot risk it, not now.” 

His father wasn’t even looking at him, but reading notes on his desk. He was his son! He was more important than a scroll of parchment! 

“Why not? The mudbloods and blood traitors are weak! We can strike at their homes, kill them, and vanish before anyone notices! Like in the war!” Draco had been looking forward, had longed, to don the sacred robe and mask again, to fight mudbloods and blood traitors, to further the cause of the purebloods. To feel the thrill of lethal battle again, like last summer. 

“No we cannot. Not now. Maybe next year, if things go well.”

“Next year?” To spend another year, caged among the sheep in the school, unable to show his true nature, unable to strike at his enemies… no, that was impossible!

“Yes. If things go well, next year.” His father rolled up one scroll and dropped it on an enchanted pad on his polished marble desk. The scroll vanished with a quick flash of green light. It was the same color as the Killing Curse, something Draco had found very funny when he had noticed it after the World Cup.

“Why? Why can’t we fight now? We did it last year!” They had sent their enemies fleeing in terror. Culled their numbers in glorious combat! He would have stamped his foot, if it would have made any impression on the thick Persian carpet on the floor in his father’s study.

“I told you, circumstances have changed. We cannot risk getting exposed.” His father was, finally, looking at him, and he looked annoyed - no, he looked angry.

“That’s it? You fear the Aurors? You have the Minister in your pocket, why should we fear the Aurors?” It wasn’t as if anyone had bothered them after the fight at the World Cup last year. Not the Malfoys. Draco put his hands on the desk and leaned forward, towards his father.

“I told you my reasons. In the current political climate, a mistake or slip up could be ruinous. The risks are simply too big.” The Head of the Malfoy family narrowed his eyes, and Draco had taken a step back before he realised that he had moved

Huffing, the young wizard turned away. “I’ll amuse myself with some muggles, then.”

“No, you will not do that either.” The cold voice stopped him.

Draco whirled around. “What? You can’t forbid that! Those are muggles, animals! No one cares about them, not the Aurors, not even the blood traitors!” 

He didn’t hear the incantation and when he saw the cloud appear around him, it was too late to do anything. For a moment he felt as if he was back at the duelling competition last year, when the mudblood had sent the poison cloud he had sent at her back to him. Then the poison touched him, and he collapsed, screaming. The pain was far worse than back then - unbearable. Death would be a relief! He thrashed around, hands and knees hitting the floor, lashing out at the poisonous air that clung to him. And during it all, he kept screaming.

Then it ended, and he lay there, panting, crying, vomiting on the carpet, and heard the anger in the voice of his father. 

“I’ve had enough of your backtalk, Draco! Your foolishness could doom our entire family, and I will not tolerate disobedience in this. Do you understand?”

Draco was unable to answer, his voice hoarse, but he managed to nod jerkily at the boots and the hem of his father’s robe that he saw from his position. 

“Get out then, and do not bother me about this again!”

The young pureblood wizard crawled out of his father’s study, weeping and shivering. As soon as he had crossed the threshold the black wooden door closed behind him, and he curled up in a ball. His father had cursed him! He had never done this before!

He barely heard a gasp before soft hands caressed his cheeks, brushing away the tears. “Mother...” His mother was there, for him.

“Shh, Draco. Drink this, it will bring relief from the pain.” 

A vial was held to his lips, and he drank it all. The pain lessened, but did not go away. 

Draco looked at his mother, kneeling next to him, holding him in her arms. “Mother! Father cursed me. Cursed ME!”

“I know, Draco.”

“But why? Why?” He didn’t understand. His father had never done this before. He had been punished, but never like this.

His mother looked very sad. “Draco, your father is... I cannot tell you why, but you cannot anger him, or disobey him. Please.”

Draco nodded. He wouldn’t dare to cross his father, not after today. He still didn’t understand what had happened, what had changed, but he understood that.

“Good boy.”

*****

She should have known it was a bad idea, Hermione Granger told herself when she stepped out of the Floo into Grimmauld Place. She had known it was a bad idea, actually, but her parents, even Harry, had not agreed with her.

“That was…”

“That was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, Harry. I want to forget it as soon as possible.” Hermione cut her friend off. 

“I didn’t think she would…”

“Talking about something is not conductive to forgetting it.” She glared at Harry until he shut up. She’d not talk about Nymphadora Black-Tonks, metamorphmagus and a recent but big fan of muggle culture, and her disastrous visit to the Grangers. 

Wisely, her friend did drop the topic. Both knew that once Sirius heard of it, they’d have to do something drastic to keep him from bringing it up at every opportunity. At least her parents had not forbidden her to travel with Harry this summer. They were probably still too shocked. She could explain to them that the French and Bulgarians had quite different customs than the British, but that wouldn’t help that much.

“Greetings, Master’s Godson and Master’s Godson’s slave.” Kreacher was busy in the kitchen when the two entered. 

Hermione had to take a deep breath to control herself, and not hex the evil little… poor old house elf who didn’t know any better after more than a century spent in service of the Blacks. “Tea please.”

While the elf was busy preparing tea, the two sat down at the kitchen table, in their usual spots, facing each other. “Well, the Floo connection works. If anyone attacks your parents they can flee through it.”

“Yes.” Hermione smiled at her friend. Thanks to the private Floo connection coupled with the spells she had cast on the house, her parents were much safer than before. Still not as safe as she wanted them to be, but without warding the house and dooming her family to a life without electronics, that was the best she could do. Until she managed to solve the problem with wards and electronics. She was so close...

Two cups appeared on the table. Harry leaned towards her and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. Both remained silent for a while, drinking their tea. 

“I wonder how many such private Floo connections exist, separate from the public network.” Hermione refilled her cup.

“Not too many. They are quite expensive to install, and there are not many wizards able to do it. And even fewer you can trust to be discreet about it.”

“Don’t tell my parents that.” Hermione hated being indebted to anyone, a trait she shared with her parents. But their safety was more important, and if they didn’t know just how much that connection had cost it would harm no one. Her father probably thought the sole reason for it was to let her visit Harry more easily. Well, that was a rather nice side benefit, if she was honest with herself. Too bad it was situated in the living room, and not in her own room, or she’d be able to sneak out at night, and visit… she clamped down on that thought before it touched on some of her fantasies she really shouldn’t indulge in before she had mastered Occlumency. She never knew when Sirius might try to surprise test her mental defenses, after all, and if Harry’s godfather knew about that she’d never live it down. Or if he told Harry.

*****

In a small cottage in Wales, the greatest Dark Lord of Britain was pacing back and forth between the desk and the bed. It was a safe house, arranged by Barty Crouch Jr. before his sacrifice, secure and well-hidden, but he would have to expand the interior a few times, until it was fit for him to spend more than a day in. Doing that might leave clues that would point to him having returned though, if the wrong people found the house despite the precautions he had taken. Another inconvenience hampering his path back to the power he deserved, though a minor one compared to other obstacles. Like his lack of trustworthy Death Eaters.

The more Voldemort knew of the current state of his old followers, the more he realised how much of a blow the loss of Barty Crouch Jr. had been. Barty had not just been fanatically devoted to him, but far more skilled and talented than most of his Death Eaters. And Barty would have died rather than betray him, or his secrets. Voldemort was certain that none of his followers outside Azkaban had that kind of loyalty right now, no matter if they were marked or not. At least Lucius was cowed enough to keep the Ministry from meddling too much in his affairs, and Walden was apt at finding malcontents to bolster the numbers of his followers, as well as at thinning the ranks of his enemies. But neither one could really replace his Bellatrix, or the others imprisoned at Azkaban. He briefly considered contacting Severus. The man was certainly competent, one of the best potioneers, and had been a fair hand at dealing with enemies on the battlefield as well. But he couldn’t be trusted. Not after revealing himself to be a spy for Dumbledore in the aftermath of that particular Samhain. Even if Severus had only claimed that to escape Azkaban, he had been at Hogwarts, at Dumbledore’s side, for over ten years since. No, he could not trust such a man, not yet.

As much as it galled Voldemort, he still had to move with the utmost care, lest Dumbledore learn of his return. He had planned to send a few of the potential recruits out to deal with annoyances like Lockhart. People who had vexed him but didn’t pose real problems to his plans. It would serve to blood his recruits, and to weed out the incompetent. But that would have to wait for now. He needed another diversion. He pondered this for a while. As far as Dumbledore knew, the saboteur who had tried to kill the Boy-Who-Lived was still at large. If his old enemy could be fooled into assuming that that man was dead, he might lower his guard, which would make both recruiting more wands for Voldemort’s cause as well as dealing with obstacles much easier. But how to arrange that?

Potter and his mudblood were bound for France and Bulgaria this summer according to Lucius’s sources in the Ministry. That would be a good opportunity to strike at them without Dumbledore able to come to their rescue, even though there was a small risk of making more enemies abroad. On the other hand, Voldemort didn’t know the French and Bulgarians well enough to predict their responses, so letting them dispose of his scapegoat in a way that would fool Dumbledore would be more difficult to pull off. And, if there was an opportunity to kill the Boy-Who-Lived, it would be a shame to deliberately waste it.

He nodded. He knew the right sort of wizards - ruthless, and mercenary - from his time in the Balkans, when he had prepared his refuge in Albania. He just needed to pick a fitting scapegoat, and have that one hire them. Best case, the Boy-Who-Lived died, and the French or Bulgarian Aurors tracked down his puppet, who would be killed of course. Worst case, he would have his puppet try again in Britain. 

He went to the kitchen and checked what kind of meals were left in stasis in the pantry. He’d have to restock them soon.

*****

International magical travel was faster than muggle travel, but no less exhausting, Harry Potter had learned, both for organizing the trip, as well as the actual travel. International Portkeys took a lot of paperwork to get, and more than a little gold, though he was certain that that could be improved with a better organization of the department that issued them. At least Hermione had claimed so, after she had gone along with Sirius to that particular department in the Ministry. The trip itself though… International portkeys spun one around as badly as national ones, just for longer. Fortunately, they hadn’t traveled the entire distance to the South of France in one trip. That would have been nasty. Even so, he noticed there were buckets placed in the room of the traveling agency they had just arrived in at Paris. After he found his bearings, that is.

“Wow! I had forgotten just how much fun those trips were!” Sirius, of course, was having a blast. He hadn’t fallen down upon arrival, either. Life wasn’t fair.

Hermione muttered something under her breath - they were in public, so she couldn’t curse the animagus, literally or figuratively - and stood up from where she had been thrown by the portkey. Fortunately the floor was enchanted with a cushioning charm. The walls probably as well.

“Only an utter fool out of his mind would enjoy such torture.” The last member of the traveling party, Nymphadora Black-Tonks, had leave to voice her feelings on the matter. She was prone to clumsiness to start with, and the trip had not done her any favors, so she was not even trying to get up right now. The young Auror was their security detail - the Ministry feared for their safety, since at least to their knowledge the culprit behind the attacks on the Tournament had not been caught yet. Apparently, she was a compromise - a trained Auror and, if not legally family, she at least had blood ties to them. Further, unknown to the Ministry, she was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. The Auror hadn’t been told about Voldemort’s return so far, a fact that didn’t sit well with the rest of their group, but Dumbledore had been adamant about the need to keep this secret. And after her display at the Grangers’, Harry and Hermione didn’t feel that bad about keeping her in the dark anymore.

“Why, dear Nymph..adora, did you have trouble during the trip?” Sirius made a show of offering her his hand to help her up, knowing she’d not be able to stand yet.

If looks could curse, Sirius would be sprouting something embarrassing, painful, or both now, but as it was, Nymphadora’s eyes only showed the promise of future retribution, or so Harry thought. You never truly knew with Blacks, even if they were children of an emancipated Black and not of the main family. Their tempers were sometimes too much for their manners.

“I wish we had Remus with us,” Hermione whispered next to him, shaking her head at the antics of their two fellow travelers and supposed adult chaperons.

“Me too.” It was impossible, though. Bringing a werewolf along without informing the host of his nature would have been a grave insult, even a capital crime depending on the phase of the moon, and revealing his curse would not be not worth the trip, not for the trouble it would cause for Remus and Hogwarts back in Britain. 

Hermione sighed. “They are supposed to watch us, not the other way around. So much for our vacation. Let’s see if we can find the Floo connections before they start something.”

Harry nodded, cast the translation charm Hermione had taught him, and the two went off to the information desk. With some luck they’d be back before Nymphadora and Sirius had started too much trouble.

*****

The entrance hall of Chateau D’Aigle, where Fleur’s family lived, was an impressive sight, though to Hermione Granger’s surprise, it was more similar to Hogwarts than to Beauxbatons, at least according to the pictures of the French school she had seen, even though it was situated in a similar location in France. While beautifully decorated, it left a very solid, secure impression, with thick walls and sturdy doors. 

When she spotted the half-dozen Veela and wizards awaiting them, Fleur and Gabrielle, their parents, and their maternal grandparents, Hermione was very glad that they had arrived by Floo and not by portkey. To arrive flat on her back or stomach would not have made a good first impression, in her opinion. 

“Ah! Ugh! I’m okay… I’m okay.”

Or to arrive as a flailing bundle of limbs and roll over the polished marble floor until stopped by a pillar, like Nymphadora. The young witch noticed with some relief that their hosts seemed to ignore the spectacle, apart from a few giggles from Gabrielle, which were quickly shut up by a glare from her mother. Sirius and Harry, who had arrived before Hermione, didn’t react to the scene either. The young witch stepped up to stand slightly to the side and behind her Patron while their security detail was still untangling her limbs. Fortunately, not quite as literally as she could have done it, given her body-changing talent.

“Be welcome in our home, honoured guests.” 

Fleur’s grandmother levitated a loaf of bread, and with a flick of her wand, broke it up in bite-sized pieces which floated to each person present.

“Please accept our thanks, honoured host.” 

Sirius bowed, then ate his piece. As they had been instructed to beforehand, the rest of them followed his example. The bread tasted very salty - bread and salt, Hermione knew, symbolized hospitality. She also felt a tingle of magic as the small ritual finished and everyone relaxed while less formal greetings were exchanged. Gabrielle went back to hiding behind her mother as soon as possible, but she was peeking out and at staring at Hermione with wide eyes, which was puzzling the witch. 

“You must be tired from your travels. Please follow me to the guest quarters so you can rest until lunch.” Fleur smiled, taking the formal edge off her words. The British group followed her out of the entrance hall. As soon as they were out of earshot, she started speaking English instead of French. “You’ll be given the tour later, of course - grand-mére loves to show off the chateau - but I’ll show you where the dining hall and the terrace are.” The young Veela led the small group to the guest quarters, a series of rooms in the west wing, with a beautiful view of the azure Mediterranean Sea. Hermione’s room was last, as expected.

“And ‘ere is your room, ‘ermione.” Fleur opened the door, but stepped inside as well, surprising Hermione. The room itself was spacious, with cream-colored walls, big windows and elegant furniture including an old armoire and a big bed with thick curtains. The windows looked a bit off though, something wasn’t right. 

“And here’s the door to ‘arry’s room. In case you get lonely at night,” Fleur stated with a teasing smirk. 

Hermione should have blushed or smiled saucily back with a joke, she knew, but all she managed was a weak, even wistful smile. “I will keep that in mind.” 

The Veela’s smirk changed into a puzzled frown at that reaction. “Did something ‘appen? Should I ‘ave the door sealed?”

“No, no!” Hermione held her hands up. To lock Harry out? Perish the thought! “It’s just… we’re currently trying to find out if we want to use such a door, you know? In the future, that is. For what you implied.” She sat down on the soft bed.

Fleur nodded, grinning again. “Ah, I see. Romance is in the air then. This is the perfect location for a couple to grow closer.”

Hermione coughed. That wasn’t what she had meant, well, not precisely. Not that she was against the idea, in principle. She decided to change the topic. “Did your exams go well?”

“They did. I ‘ave a number of offers for employment. Even one from Gringotts in Britain.” Fleur looked proud of that, and she had reasons to - Gringotts was a first-rate employer, able to take their pick from a number of applicants. 

“I am glad to hear that. I am sorry I missed seeing you off after the tournament.” Hermione ran a hand over the covers on the bed. Silk, embroidered and enchanted. Thin and soft.

“‘ermione, you were hurt and in the ‘ospital! No one would ‘ave expected you to come see us off. Not that ‘arry would ‘ave let you leave, I assume. It looked so bad, Gabrielle was convinced you ‘ad some fire creature ancestry to survive that.” Fleur shook her head, but Hermione couldn’t tell if it was at her, or at the notions of her little sister. The British witch held up her hands in surrender anyway, and Fleur nodded, apparently satisfied. “Now rest. We’ll eat lunch in an hour, and afterwards you’ll get the tour. After that I’ll show you the beach.”

“I am looking forward to it.” And she was - French food, an old French chateau to explore, and a beach to enjoy. That’s what summer vacations should be like!

*****

The meal was great, and the company was charming. French hospitality was as good as the tales he had heard, Harry Potter thought. Well, apart from the tales from Sirius - according to his godfather the French would make sure he wouldn’t have to sleep alone. Harry had dismissed that as another tall tale. Though, maybe it would be prudent to make sure that his door was locked - some of Fleur’s cousins were giving him funny looks between whispering to each other.

That was another difference to Britain he fully approved of: The French let the Heads of a Family decide who was part of their family. Just as what looked like all of Fleur’s cousins and other assorted relatives were present, so was Hermione. His retainer could sit at the table with him, even though she was a muggleborn, without anyone feeling slighted as long as she didn’t make a faux pas. He wasn’t worried about that - his best friend knew her manners, better than most.

Despite everyone having dressed up, and the formal elegance of the meal, with the dishes floating in graceful arcs around the table, darting in at the point of a wand while soft music played in the background, it felt more like being at the Weasleys’ than say, at the Bones’. Part of that was the number of people present. They had to be filling the chateau to the roof, if everyone was sleeping here. But more importantly, they also seemed to be more relaxed than Harry was used to on such occasions. Fleur’s family members laughed more, joked more, flirted more… at that thought he briefly and hopefully subtly checked if anyone was flirting a bit too much with Hermione. It didn’t seem to be the case, she was mostly talking with Fleur about the Veela’s future plans.

Harry didn’t glance, subtly or not, at Sirius, who was outrageously flirting with every pretty witch - and all the women and girls present were very pretty - within reach that was not obviously married or engaged. Not that he did not flirt with those as well, just not as hard. Harry didn’t think his godfather had to worry about sleeping alone. More likely, he had to worry about his bed getting too crowded… and now Harry was thinking like Sirius. It was just flirting, they were not courting. Fleur had explained the differences when she had been at Hogwarts. At least he hoped it wasn’t.

Nymphadora was acting a bit more restrained, in comparison. She wasn’t showing off her talent, at least. Harry wasn’t keen on living through another moment like at the Grangers’. 

“I was very impressed by your performance in the air race, Mister Potter. You came close to beating my daughter, and that’s no mean feat given her talents in the air,” Fleur’s mother addressed him. She was wearing a high-necked silk robe that seemed to flow around her body, with small illusionary exotic birds flying around the fabric, and on the fabric.

“I have to thank Hermione for that, mostly. She created a spell that allowed me to fly faster. I am a Quidditch player, not a racer.” Harry had done well, he knew, but he didn’t want to sound as if he was boasting. He was wearing his best robes himself, recently adjusted by Hermione’s latest spells.

“I have heard of that spell. It was recently banned from both Quidditch matches and races, without having been used so far in either sport. That’s quite an accomplishment for a witch so young.” The Veela nodded towards Harry’s retainer, but Hermione hadn’t noticed; she seemed engrossed in her conversation with Fleur.

“Oh, yes, she’s a genius. I’d have died without her help.” Harry saw Fleur’s parents exchange smiles, and noticed Fleur’s cousins giggling some more, but with half the table flirting, he didn’t mind if they realised just how he felt about his Hermione. If that made a few of those too-handsome wizards stop looking at his best friend like that, so much the better.

*****

Lunch had been great! For the first time in her life Hermione Granger had felt truly welcome at a formal occasion involving rich purebloods. Sadly, she knew it did not mean that France had a more liberal society - it was simply the result of French wizards and witches caring less about how the Heads of Family treated their muggleborn family members. Wizarding Britain’s society might not approve of muggleborns sitting at the pureblood table, but it also didn’t approve of a Patron exercising his or her legal power over a retainer in ways that apparently wouldn’t even make the French blink.

Hermione pushed those thoughts away. She had better things to focus on - the tour of the chateau afterwards was perfect! Fleur’s grand-mère was better than any tour guides in a museum. The tapestries she had shown them, the portraits on the walls… Hermione hoped she could note down all she had heard, it made for a fascinating and enthralling story. The hallways and rooms of the chateau were also enchanted with spells that kept a soft warm breeze of fresh air going, scented with the merest hint of the sea.

“The chateau was built on the location of an ancient Veela enclave taken by the Romans when they conquered southern France and named it Gallia Transalpina, later renamed to Gallia Narbonensis. They had a castellum here at first, but it was abandoned later after Pompeius had driven all the pirates from the Mare nostrum. During the middle ages, the Clan d’Aigle took control of the place once more and rebuilt the castle, sheltering Veela from Barbary Coast raiders.”

“That explains the thickness of the walls.” Hermione nodded.

“Indeed.” The older Veela smiled at her. “Given our history, we never felt secure enough to trust spells and wards, unlike the founders of Beauxbatons. Instead of just strengthening our walls with magic, we did both that, and created magical windows that can be reduced to firing slits in case we come under attack.”

“How often does that happen these days?” Nymphadora asked. “I thought after the Intervention such raids ceased.”

The old Veela smiled ruefully. “If only that were the case! The larger raids ceased, but lone Veela or witches, and the occasional wizard child, still disappear. And as memories grow weaker, raiders grow bolder. I fear that before I die I’ll see the day the chateau will be under siege again.”

That was a sobering thought. Hermione had been at this coast before, with her parents. To think she could have been kidnapped…

“But we have improved our defenses. Our private beach is as heavily warded as the chateau itself. Do not fear for your safety as long as you are here.” She turned towards a side corridor. “This leads to our wine cellar. It’s heavily warded, of course - we French do value our treasures greatly - but if you are interested, my husband will likely give you a tour; the wine cellar is part of his responsibilities.”

Hermione had known that the French had two Heads per family, who divided their responsibilities among them as they wanted, but this was the first time she had heard of an actual example - apart from Fleur’s grandmother handling the female members of her family, and her grandfather the male ones. She noticed Sirius was looking very interested, and slightly shook her head, though with a smile. She had hoped this vacation would be helping Sirius deal with the lingering effects of his time in Azkaban, and it seemed to be working. Almost too well, even - she hoped he didn’t start to drink too much.

*****

The ‘private beach’ of the Chateau d’Aigle was an impressive feat of magic. It wasn’t, as one might expect, a natural beach, hidden by wards from muggles, maybe made unplottable too - no, it was an artificial bay, originally a tiny inlet that had been magically expanded. Like the mokeskin bags Harry Potter was familiar with, just on a scale he had not heard of before. Hermione had been gushing over the intricacies of it for a quarter of an hour after realizing what had been done, so he was now well-acquainted with the theory. More familiar than he wanted to be, if he was honest. It wasn’t as if he’d have an opportunity to duplicate the feat anytime soon, after all. Not that he had let Hermione know that, of course - she loved discussing such things, and he’d be a poor friend to spoil it for her. Poor Patron too. Though given that everyone on the beach, including his retainer, was wearing the merest hints of bathing suits, if one could call the tiny illusionary patches floating over their bodies that, he would have had trouble following a normal conversation, much less Hermione’s explanation. Sirius and Nymphadora had gone into the water right after they had arrived at the beach. Traitors.

“Am I boring you, Harry? You seem a bit distracted.”

Harry blinked. It seemed he had not been as discreet as he had thought. “Ah… no, no. It’s just…” he made a sweeping gesture at the white sand, and the azure sea, and Fleur’s relatives currently either swimming in the water with Sirius and Nymphadora, tossing some glowing spheres around, or sunbathing.

“I guess that is a bit distracting.” Hermione sounded a bit wistfully, or even sad. He didn’t know why.

“Yes… I mean, no.”

“I think I’ll go swimming for a bit myself.” Hermione stood up and started down to the surf. He started at her back, almost bare but for a bit of illusionary string, and she was out in the water before he could say anything else. 

“I believe you’ve made a bit of a blunder, ‘arry.”

He turned his head away from the sea, and realised Fleur had sat down next to him, on another of the enchanted towels that appeared on command. The Veela was wearing a bit more than her family, but if it had been real cloth, it still wouldn’t have been enough to craft a purse that would hold more than six galleons. He closed his eyes, both to avoid staring, and because he felt angry at himself. “I know.”

“That wouldn’t ‘ave ‘appened if you were French.”

“Do you mean if I was French, I would have been more… attentive?” Charming, suave, seductive?

“That I cannot say. But if you were French, you’d be formally courting. You’d ‘ave an understanding, and you’d be less afraid of stumbling or missteps in the dance towards each other.”

“We have an understanding, of sorts.” Or so he hoped. Hermione just had to accept that magic couldn’t create love.

“You should compliment ‘er more then. Every witch likes to be flattered by ‘er lover.”

Now he was staring at her with wide open eyes. “We’re not, I mean… we’re still… that’s usually done in sixth year.”

“I thought the Year of Discovery was for experimenting, not love.” Fleur was lying on her back, propped up on her elbows, looking at him.

“It’s complicated.” Though Harry was quite certain that if he and Hermione didn’t manage to settle things this year, their sixth year would be a catastrophe. He sat up and pulled his knees up.

“It must be a British thing then. It looks quite simple from my point of view. You love ‘er, she loves you.” Fleur showed him a friendly smile, though her tone was gently teasing.

“It is a British thing, yes.” Harry wasn’t about to discuss the particular details of his relationship with his retainer and all of its problems with Fleur.

“See? If you were French you’d not ‘ave this problem.” Fleur giggled.

“Speaking of British… how is Bill doing?”

The Veela stopped giggling. “‘e is doing well. ‘e recently got a promotion at Gringotts, and was transferred to Britain.”

“Are you two… dancing towards each other?” Harry was proud he managed to say that with a straight face. It probably sounded better in French.

Now Fleur sighed. “We are, but… I am not sure we should be dancing in Britain. The laws there could be a problem.”

Harry nodded. There was not much he could say. Veela were not considered purebloods in Britain, with all the consequences that brought with it. “Bill’s been working in Egypt.”

“Yes, but he wasn’t ‘appy about being so far away from ‘is family. If not for the money ‘e’d never ‘ave accepted the position.”

“And his family is in Britain.”

Fleur nodded, staring out at the sea, though Harry was sure she was seeing something else than the bay. “Things would be so much better if everyone was French.”

Harry had to snort at that, but couldn’t argue the point right then. A squeal from one of Fleur’s cousins that Sirius had grabbed and was about to throw into the water caught his attention. 

“Ah, there’s a British wizard who knows ‘ow treat a girl, or girls! Your godfather is quite the flirt.” Fleur must have noticed the scene as well, and took the opportunity to change topics.

“He’s more a seducer than a flirt.” Harry frowned a bit. It wasn’t as if Sirius was acting uncouth, but… he was an older wizard, in Harry’s opinion, and some of the girls looked hardly older than Fleur.

“I do ‘ope so. There would be much disappointment otherwise, later tonight.”

Harry closed his eyes again. He was glad for Sirius, he really was, but seeing his godfather having such success was not making him feel better about his own love life.

*****

“My Patron, may I take your leave and head to bed? I am in need of rest.” 

Harry Potter was surprised for a moment. Hermione had been a bit distant at the beach, swimming a lot and chatting with Fleur’s family and not with him, but dinner had been filled with tales of their adventures at Hogwarts - the stories they could tell in public, at least - and she had been talking animatedly about this or that detail, as she would usually do in such occasions. His retainer had been swimming a lot today, but… she didn’t look that tired to him, and Harry was usually better at knowing when she was tired than Hermione herself. Too often he had had to send her to bed because she was pushing herself. It wasn’t that late either, but he certainly wouldn’t keep her at his side if she wanted to leave. “Of course, my Wand.” 

Hermione bowed to him, then to their hosts, and left the salon. With her gone, Harry’s good mood seemed to have vanished as well. He managed to finish the account of his first Quidditch match, but then acted as if he was stifling a yawn. It took two more tries until Madam Aigle asked if he felt the need for rest himself, though given the way she was smiling, she probably assumed he had other plans for the night, and was just being discreet. Sirius of course was winking so blatantly, a blind wizard would have been able to figure out what he was thinking. And Nymphadora was not that much more subtle. If only they were right!

Once in his room he couldn’t help but staring at the door that led to Hermione’s room. Fleur had pointed it out to him as a matter of course earlier that day. The young witch in the room next to his would be in bed by now. Probably reading. Or sleeping. Wearing… he shook his head. He didn’t want to dwell on that, not now. He pulled his robe off and sent it to the hanger in the corner with a quick swish of his wand. His undergarments followed, and he summoned his pajamas from his traveling trunk. Red Silk with golden trim, a birthday gift from his godfather - Sirius took house pride seriously. He had just pulled the bottoms on when he heard a knock on the door. The door to - or from - Hermione’s room. He unlocked it with his wand at once, but it didn’t open more than a narrow gap. “It’s open.”

“Harry? Can I come in?” 

Hermione sounded almost timid. Had something happened? She usually didn’t hesitate to enter his room at Grimmauld Place. Sometimes she even stormed inside without knocking, usually when she was very excited about something.

“Of course.” He realised he still held his top in his hand, and was about to pull it on when Hermione entered and he froze. His friend was not wearing a robe, or pajamas, but some flimsy, mostly transparent thing, held up by magic, that exposed far more of her bosom than it hid, and barely reached her thighs. His mouth suddenly felt dry. Hermione had been wearing less fabric at the beach, but…it had been a bathing suit meant for swimming and sunbathing. This… this outfit was meant for seduction. It drew far more attention to the curves it failed to hide, and it looked as if all it took to make it fall off was a touch. Why was she wearing this? And coming to his room, at night. He could think of a reason, of course. 

“Harry?”

He blinked, and tore his eyes off Hermione’s body to look at her face. She was smiling, but he could tell she was nervous. Or afraid. And blushing. But she had restyled her hair as well, using her wand as a hairpin. He licked his lips nervously. He had had dreams that started like this, and went on to… he was suddenly glad he still had his top in his hands, it covered his groin. “Yes?”

Hermione bit her lower lip, then took a deep breath. The movement of her chest sent Harry’s thoughts again to places he wasn’t sure they should be in. “After this afternoon I wanted to… I am no Veela, I know, but… “ she cocked her head slightly to the side, and smiled, though a bit weakly. “I can be distracting too, can’t I?” She gestured at her body with her left hand.

Harry was nodding, staring again. Then he realised she was trembling. “You’re not distracting, Hermione, you’re beautiful,” he stated as firmly as he could. He wanted her to understand and accept that.

It seemed he had failed. She still looked nervous, insecure. Timid. The sight tore at his heart. Harry stood up and walked towards his retainer. Her mouth opened, but she made no sound, and Harry saw she was staring at him. At his body. He stopped in front of her, close enough he would only have to lean forward to...

He didn’t know who of them started it, but suddenly, their lips met. It wasn’t the sort of kiss Sirius had told him of. His godfather would call it chaste even, but it was his first kiss, and when they separated, both were flushed and taking deep breaths. “You’re beautiful,” he repeated, “and I love you.”

Hermione beamed at him, smiling while tears ran down her cheeks, and then she hugged him. He wrapped his arms around her, his hands touching her bare back, like at the Yule Ball. But this time he was wearing only his pajama bottoms, and Hermione was wearing a little bit of nothing. He could feel her body pressed into his as if she was nude. Harry wanted to rip her clothes, such as they were, off her, push her against the wall, and… he closed his eyes, shivering at the thoughts filling his mind. Suddenly he felt her freeze, stiffen in his arms, and blushed when he realised what she must have noticed. He gripped her shoulders, and pushed her back a bit, until he could look into her eyes.

Neither said anything while they stood there, facing each other, the only sound their heavy breathing. For a moment, everything seemed possible. Then Hermione’s eyes wandered down and widened, and Harry took a step back, covering himself up with his hands. 

“Well…”

“Well…”

Suddenly, Hermione’s expression changed into a wider smile. She reached out and gripped his wrists with one hand, fixing his hands in place, before pulled his head towards hers with her other hand. The kiss that followed was more suitable to their current location.

*****

“And this is the best tailor of the Quartier Magique of Marseille!” Fleur pointed at a small shop in a side alley - though one a bit wider and brighter than the ones she was used to in Diagon Alley. The streets were made from the same cobblestones though, though the houses looked quite different, in a distinct Mediterranean style, especially the roofs. Even apart from that the shop looked quite different compared to Madam Malkin’s. No big windows showing off the dresses, just a small display of a single robe, next to a sign that simply read ‘D’Alba’. “‘e is not as well-known as the tailors in Paris, but ‘e makes the best protective robes. All the top Aurors of France shop ‘ere.”

“Really?” Hermione looked at the shop with renewed interest. A tailor specializing in protections! She winced when she thought of how much such robes would likely cost, and how long it would take her to identify and then reverse engineer the spells used. Well, it was for Harry’s protection, ultimately, and so she was certain Sirius would buy a robe or two, if she asked. She glanced back at where Harry and Sirius were looking at the latest French racing brooms in the display of the broom shop on the main street. From the looks of it, Harry was asking for a test ride. She smiled - he looked so passionate, so attractive…

“Mh. That look on your face tells me something ’appened last night.” Fleur’s teasing voice interrupted her little fantasy.

Hermione jerked and looked at the Veela. “What?”

“You were not looking at ‘arry like that last evening. Did you visit ‘im at night?” Fleur was leaning close to her, and had dropped her voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper.

“It was not like that!” Hermione protested. Fleur’s tone insinuated something very different than what had actually happened - even though the young witch knew they had come close, very close, to that. If she had not kissed him while holding his hands, but had had instead pulled his hands away, placed them on her chest… maybe simply waiting would have been enough for Harry to take charge and grab her, and...

“How was it then?” Fleur interrupted her fantasies again.

For a moment Hermione hesitated to share. She did not know Fleur that well. On the other hand, the Veela was more experienced, and it wasn’t as if Hermione had a best girlfriend. Apart from Luna, and Luna was… not here. The young witch took a deep breath, looked at the main street again to make sure Harry and Sirius were still checking brooms, and whispered: “I visited him, but we just kissed.” 

And she now knew Harry thought she was beautiful. After the beach, with all the Veela around, distracting him, she had felt like an ugly duckling. Not pretty enough for the Boy-Who-Lived to pay attention to without being forced by a magic oath made as a child to a silly girl. She had been so afraid, so desperate, when she had gone into his room, wearing that negligée. To prove her doubts and fears wrong, she had been willing to… it had not come to that, fortunately. Or unfortunately. After she had broken that last kiss, and returned to her room, Hermione had spent a few minutes leaning with her back to the door, panting, knees trembling, and much longer in her bed, before she had calmed down enough to find some sleep. 

“Mh. Why do I think there was more than that?”

Hermione frowned at the Veela, then sighed. She didn’t think the witch would let up until she knew more. “We were not wearing much while we kissed.” Let the Veela draw her own conclusions from that!

“Ah! Marvelous! So you’ve become a couple then.”

That wasn’t the conclusion Hermione had wanted her to draw. “It’s complicated.”

“You British are always complicating things that should be simple.” Fleur shook her head in mild disapproval.

“You sound as if you are speaking from experience. Did I miss something that happened at Hogwarts?” Hermione didn’t think she had been that out of the loop, even with Lavender and Parvati giving her the cold shoulder after the Yule Ball, but she had been quite focused on helping Harry survive the year.

“Did you ‘ear about the time a few of my fellow students were caught with some ‘ogwarts sixth year students in a very embarrassing situation on top of our school’s carriage?”

Hermione shook her head. That did sound scandalous, even for sixth years. Unless it had involved the Weasley twins.

“Well, you missed a near-scandal then, but that’s not what I was talking about.” Fleur giggled when Hermione scowled at the teasing Veela. Then she grew more serious. “It’s Bill. Bill Weasley.”

“Oh.”

“I love him. ‘e loves me. We ‘ave an understanding. But ‘e also loves ‘is family, and doesn’t want to leave Britain. And there Veela are not ‘eld in the same regard as in France.” She sighed, leaning against the white wall of the shop. Unlike many other shop signs, this one did not react to her presence, didn’t change and try to entice her to enter. Only the very old, established shops could afford that kind of understatement.

“You’re not seen as purebloods there.” Hermione was quite familiar with the problems differences in blood status caused, or could cause in Britain. 

“Yes. We’d need the permission of the Wizengamot to marry. And that means politics, and bribes. Not the most romantic things to think about when it comes to marriage. And while Bill loves ‘is family, I love mine as well. I am not sure why we should live and marry in Britain, if it’s so much easier to marry ‘ere in France. Not to mention the question of whose family we will become part of.”

“I see.” Hermione hadn’t thought about those problems, but they were quite obvious in hindsight. Though she wasn’t sure Fleur, who had been raised as a pureblood, and a privileged one at that, even realised that she was still in a far better position than Hermione - it wasn’t as if muggleborns were even permitted to marry purebloods in France or Britain. But even if the Veela saw things from the perspective of a pureblood suddenly treated as a half-blood, and might not realise that muggleborns faced worse everywhere, this was not the time to point that out. This was the time to be supportive. “But if you two love each other, you’ll manage to find a way to be happy together, no matter the problems you are facing.” Hermione smiled encouragingly at the Veela. She was certain they’d find a way - she had to be, or she would not be able to face her own future.

“Thank you, ’ermione.” Fleur smiled at her, with gratitude, but also sadness. “But let’s talk about something else.”

“Ah. I have a question.” It was a rather intimate question, but Hermione had spilled all of her admittedly not so great love life to Fleur, so the young witch felt she was not overstepping her bounds in asking a perhaps a bit prying question herself. “At the beach I noticed a number of your family members were wearing the same tattoo.”

“Ah, the aigle? Most wear it. The eagle is the symbol of grand-mère’s family.”

“Oh. Is that common among the French wizards and witches?” Hermione was intrigued. It sounded like the French really cared more for their extended family than the British, if they went as far as wearing matching tattoos. No wonder Fleur thought the British were more individualistic.

Fleur grinned, though a bit ruefully. “You could call it a tradition among Veela, but it has a rather dark origin. The tattoos are magical marks that allow our family to track us - in case we get kidnapped that might allow them to rescue us.”

“Oh.”

“Things have improved a great deal since the Intervention, but… old ‘abits and fears die slowly.”

“How do they work?” If she and Harry shared such a tattoo they could track each other. Maybe even communicate. And it would be a quite intimate tie between them too. Then Hermione had a more chilling thought. Hadn’t she heard speculation that the Dark Mark of Voldemort worked like that?

“That’s a secret I cannot share. If slavers would learn of it, they could find easier ways to remove them, or even find a way to track us through them.” Fleur pushed off the wall again, and to the entrance of the side alley. Harry and Sirius were on their way to them.

“I understand.” She’d have to look into this. Once she had time.

The boys, as Hermione sometimes thought of Harry and his godfather, joined them, both carrying slim packages. Not big enough to be brooms, Hermione thought, unless they had been shrunk. Which was quite likely. She knew Harry was just waiting for her to ask what they had bought, and so ignored the packages after a frown at him, which made her Patron grin widely. Before she could point out the Auror robe shop an old witch walking past them stumbled and would have fallen down if Sirius had not caught her. Then the old woman spoke in a whisper, and Hermione realised it was Nymphadora.

“Someone’s following you. They’re good, changing appearances frequently, but they’re not good enough to change how they walk. One of them is at the entrance to this alley right now, brown robe and blonde hair.”

Fleur hissed under her breath. “The saboteur?”

“Or someone wishing to kidnap you?” Hermione had just been told that kidnappings still happened, after all.

“Either way we’ll deal with it.” Harry looked like he was about to hex their tail right away. 

“If the alley up ahead is clear we can lure the tail in and ambush him. I’ll scout it out,” the metamorphmagus stated, before walking away, still in her disguise.

The other four waited in front of d’Alba’s shop, with Fleur giving them a short lecture about its history to pass the time so the wizard tailing them would hopefully not suspect anything was up.

When a young man passed them on his way to the main street, winking at the two witches with a very familiar leer, they knew the alley ahead was clear. The four moved further into it, leisurely strolling until a bend broke the line of sight to their pursuer, at which point they quickly spread out a bit. Shortly afterwards, a different wizard from the one they had expected turned around the corner - or was it the same as before, but with a changed appearance? The possibility of attacking an innocent passerby by mistake was enough to stay their wands, though, and, for a second, the man was staring at them He had to know something was up now, from the way they were spread out for their ambush. Then a red spell hit the man from behind. Nymphadora, who had changed her form again, back to a witch, had followed him. The spells on the man’s robe flared, shielding him from the stunner, and he whirled around, wand ready to curse the metamorphmagus.

Hermione’s had been ready too though, and she started casting as soon as his back was turned - together with Harry, Sirius and Fleur. The protections on the robe of the unknown wizard were quickly overloaded by a veritable hail of stunners and other spells from the four of them, and he dropped, unconscious, before he got off more than one spell, which Nymphadora shielded against. There was no need to try anything fancy to bypass protections, no sense in wasting spells on lowering defenses.

“Good work!” 

Hermione exchanged a smile with Harry at Sirius’s praise. Despite the short time the fight had taken, she was still riled up, almost panting from the rush. Their trap had worked perfectly. She looked at the man. “Do you think he’s from Britain, or from the Barbary Coast?” 

“I think he is from the French Auror Corps.” 

What? Hermione stared at Nymphadora, who was holding up a badge she had taken from their victim. 

Damn.

*****

Draco Malfoy didn’t cringe when his father entered his room, but it was a near thing. He had not forgotten - could not forget - the pain he had suffered at his father’s wand, even though he had not been harmed since. His father had not mentioned the incident in the prior week, but he hadn’t apologized either. The mood at Malfoy Manor was tense, with Lucius only meeting Draco’s mother and Draco himself at the meals, where they acted very formally towards each other - as if they were strangers. And now he was here. Draco felt quite nervous.

“Father.” Draco stood up and bowed his head. The formality emphasized the distance between them, but it felt safer than risking another punishment for angering his father.

“Draco. I have a gift for you.” He sounded like the father Draco knew, most of the time - friendly, generous, and proud.

The young pureblood perked up. A gift? 

“Follow me.”

That sounded promising. A gift too big to be brought to his room? A new broom maybe? Draco’s father didn’t lead him to the stables or to the garden though, but down to the cellar. That didn’t look too promising anymore. For a moment Draco feared the worst. Had he angered his father again, and would he now be punished here?

When he saw a secret door opening, revealing a dark corridor lined with sturdy doors and small, barred openings - cells, Draco realised - he wanted to turn around and run away. He didn’t, though. He was a Malfoy. He’d face whatever his father had prepared like the wizard he was.

“You’ve learned your lesson, Draco, and you deserve a reward.” With that his father opened the last cell and smiled at him, motioning him forward.

Draco smiled back, and then stepped up to take a look inside. He gasped in surprise. There was a girl. No, not a girl, a muggle girl, in dirty muggle clothes, chained to the wall. She was staring at him with wide eyes, trembling with fear. He could see the tracks tears had left on her dirty face. She was moving her lips, but Draco heard nothing. She was silenced, he realised. He looked at his father, who smiled indulgently at him.

“No one will be missing her, no one will suspect us. Go ahead son, enjoy yourself!”

The girl was trying to scream now, from the looks of it, and was desperately pulling at her chains. She could understand them then. For a moment Draco wanted to turn around and run away, back to his room. He didn’t know why - maybe because he had not captured the muggle himself. There was no challenge, no tension. It made sense, but didn’t feel right to him. 

He glanced back. His father was still smiling. He clearly expected Draco to be grateful, overjoyed even. Would he want to disappoint his father, after he had gone to such troubles? How would he react to an ungrateful son refusing such a gift? 

Draco did not want to find out the answers to these questions. So he smiled back, as widely as he could, and drew his wand. He’d make his father proud.

******* **


	14. Bulgarian Troubles

**Chapter 14: Bulgarian Troubles**

“We’ve stunned a French Auror!” Sirius sounded quite concerned.

Harry Potter was pretty certain that attacking an Auror wasn’t a good thing, but it wasn’t as if they had hurt him… he took a closer look at his godfather. Sirius was looking nervous, even sweating. Of course - he had to be remembering prison! Azkaban. Harry stepped closer and put his hand on the shoulder of the older wizard. “It’s just a stunner.”

“We did not know it was an Auror. And he looked suspicious?” Hermione sounded nervous too. Well, she was a muggleborn, and she knew - though not from experience, fortunately- that law enforcement was generally less lenient with muggleborns than purebloods. Harry still remembered her reaction to that particular information.

Nymphadora stood up and waved her wand in a complicated pattern. “I don’t detect any compulsion charms or other spells. He’ll be pissed for getting dropped like this, but he might not make a big deal about it if we keep it secret - he’d be teased by his fellow Aurors if this got out, I think.” She did sound like she had experienced that, and Harry filed the information for later use. One couldn’t have enough leverage when it came to Blacks.

“‘e was stalking us. ‘e should ‘ave known better than to ‘ide like this - especially since I am a Veela,” Fleur stated, frowning at the still unconscious wizard on the ground. Of course the granddaughter of the Head of the Aigle family would not be too concerned about such an incident, Harry thought and relaxed. Sirius and Hermione didn’t though, from what he could tell. There was not much that he could do about it though, not and remaining within the limits of proper behaviour in public.

“Ennervate.” Nymphadora woke the Auror up.

“Ugh… oh.” The man opened his eyes, then went for his wand, freezing when he realised his situation.

“We didn’t know you were an Auror, sorry about that. You were a bit too good with your disguise.” Nymphadora smiled at him and handed him the badge back. “I am Nymphadora Black-Tonks, British Auror Corps, on security detail for this bunch here.”

“Enchanté, Mademoiselle. Marcel Dufort, Gendarmerie Magique.” The man stood up and used his wand to remove dust and specks of dirt from his robe. Harry wondered why he didn’t have a self-cleaning charm on his robe.

Nymphadora introduced the rest of their group, even though everyone was certain Dufort already knew their names.

“So… let’s forget that this unfortunate misunderstanding happened?” Nymphadora smiled widely and winningly at her French colleague when the man nodded, after a short hesitation. “Why were you following us, though?”

“I noticed the group but didn’t see you, so I decided to keep an eye on our famous guest.” Dufort inclined his head at Harry and managed to not sound as if he was joking about the Boy-Who-Lived’s fame. “You’re certainly very good at hiding,” he added after returning his attention to Nymphadora.

The metamorphmagus smiled proudly. “Thank you. Tailing was one of my best subjects at the academy.”

Harry had to suppress a snort at that - keeping Nymphadora’s special talents secret was certainly a wise precaution, but it also served her ego.

“Indeed. My cousin’s quite talented.” Sirius, apparently recovered once it seemed there was no danger of getting to explore the inside of a French prison, put a lewd meaning on that sentence with both his expression and tone.

If looks could kill, Harry would have been out a godfather right then. Nymphadora certainly had the glare of an experienced Auror down pat, if not yet the experience itself. Even though she had been flirting with the French Auror - or was that gendarme? - or at least had been about to. The important thing was though that they had not gotten into trouble for stunning an Auror.

*****

Dinner that evening was a lively affair. Sirius recounted their adventure in Marseille with so many exaggerations and lewd insinuations that he had half the table giggling throughout the tale. Hermione Granger didn’t think it had been that funny. She hadn’t been looking forward to find out if the rumours about French prison procedures were correct, especially not as a foreign muggleborn, and she hoped Sirius would not do anything to offend their hosts. Harry’s godfather had a particular sense of humour that not everyone shared, and Azkaban had not helped by adding a rather dark undertone to it. And with Nymphadora off ‘learning about French police procedures’, it was left to Harry to rein in his godfather. Hermione couldn’t do much if Sirius went overboard, not without embarrassing Harry and possibly their hosts.

To the young witch’s relief Sirius finished his tale without any real faux pas, and soon was busy flirting with Fleur’s numerous cousins again. Harry might be slightly embarrassed by that, but it was no real problem in Hermione’s opinion.

“My house in London is open to all of you, and I hope to be able to return the hospitality shown to my family.”

Hermione almost choked on her next bite. Sirius extending a blanket invitation to half of Fleur’s family could be a real problem, at least for a young muggleborn witch who was no Veela. Of course, the Veela aura was a myth invented by unfaithful husbands, but she wasn’t certain that Fleur’s family had really believed that Hogwarts’ reputation for orgies was vastly overblown, and not an indication of British customs. Sirius’s attitude - and as far as she could tell, his nightly exploits - certainly had not helped. A bunch of too-pretty Veela trying to get into Harry’s pants, or hers, or both at the same time, while she and her Patron were still trying to sort out what exactly they felt for each other was not a pretty thought.

Harry’s strained smile at the proclamation showed he had similar thoughts, and the two exchanged a knowing, suffering glance while Sirius was already telling the Veela about the wonders of Wizarding Britain. Fleur seemed to be amused by it all, and even more so when she saw Hermione frowning at her. The French witch probably thought that was just the impetus Hermione needed to sort out her relationship with Harry!

Not that the Veela would be entirely wrong about that, Hermione knew. Things between her and Harry seemed to be getting more complicated, and more tempting, every day. If it turned out to be the result of a stupid spell or oath… Hermione didn’t think she would survive that.

*****

The group arrived in Bulgaria’s capital the same way they had arrived in France: By international portkey. This time, Harry Potter almost managed to remain standing - until Hermione crashed into him. They both fell down on the cushioned floor, barely missing the wildly flailing Nymphadora. There were buckets there too, two of which the clumsy Auror bowled over while sliding along the grey stone wall until she crashed into the corner. Even Sirius winced at that, and didn’t make a joke until his cousin had managed to get up, apparently unharmed by her ordeal. Harry wondered if that kind of resilience was due to her metamorphmagus talent, or if she simply were used to such incidents. Hermione might know, but asking her right then would be asking for a hex from Nymphadora - or something worse later.

Two stern-faced guards in black robes that reached their knees and matching pants, both shimmering slightly with the effects of either overpowered protection spells or specially designed illusions, stood guard at the entrance, wands drawn. They checked the group’s passports, ran a few detection spells over them, and only then did one of them tap the door behind them with his wand to open it. A very different welcome than in Paris, Harry noted.

The door led the four British travelers into a large hall, dominated by grey stone walls and pillars. At first it looked rather drab, though when he was passing a pillar on the way to the Floo connections, Harry saw that it was decorated with stone carvings of several animals, all in elaborate detail. He also spotted the tell-tale signs of a lot of detection spells.

Near the customs area a small crowd had gathered around one tall figure - Viktor, waiting for them, and apparently surrounded by his fans. The Bulgarian star seeker had a brief apologetic smile on his face when he spotted Harry and his family, but the wizards and witches parted easily when Viktor walked towards his guests and did not follow him - though many of them stared with unabashed curiosity at the British. Mostly at Harry and Hermione, but that was expected after the Triwizard Tournament.

“Welcome to Bulgaria, Harry!” Viktor, wearing a black and gold embroidered short coat with matching pants as well as sturdy dragonhide boots, bowed his head slightly in greeting.

“Hello, Viktor.” Harry returned the greeting. “You already know my godfather and Head of the Black Family, Sirius Black. This is his cousin, Nymphadora Black-Tonks.” He didn’t introduce or mention Hermione, that wasn’t done in Bulgaria in public. But a quick glance showed him that his retainer wore the polite, bland expression she so often used to hide her annoyance or anger in public.

Viktor bowed to the two Blacks, and then pointed to the side. “Please follow me, the Floo is right behind the gate there.”

They had to pass another checkpoint with two guards, though with Viktor declaring them as his family’s guests, there was no further delay, and the Floo took them right to Viktor’s home.

*****

Hermione Granger’s first impression of Viktor’s home was warm and welcoming. The walls were paneled with wood, carved and lacquered. The wooden floor was mostly covered with thick, beautifully woven carpets. Everything showed both care and age, and a lived in feeling - like the Weasleys’ home, if more orderly and sturdy looking.

The young witch’s second impression was less welcoming. Viktor was introducing his family, and everyone - his father Mihail Bogomiliev, his mother Lyubuv Radomirieva and his older brother Apostol Mihailiev - were ignoring her as if she was not present while smiling and bowing to Harry, Sirius and Nymphadora. The sole exception was a young woman standing a bit behind Viktor’s brother, wearing a long dress without embroiderment, who looked at Hermione with a shy smile. Viktor hadn’t introduced her either. That probably meant she was a muggleborn. Like Hermione herself.

There wasn’t any formal hospitality ritual, as far as Hermione could tell, just a jovial declaration by Viktor’s father that his home was their home, before Viktor’s mother led the pureblood guests out and to their rooms. Since the woman didn’t follow them but waited, still smiling at her, Hermione waited as well.

Once everyone else had left the room, the young woman bowed to Hermione. “Welcome to the household of the Krum Family. I am Lala Veselinieva.”

Hermione returned the bow. “I am Hermione.” She didn’t mention her family name - as far as Bulgaria was concerned, she was part of the Potter family, but as a muggleborn, she could not wear the name. Up close the British witch saw that Lala was wearing a necklace with a design matching the ornaments on the door - the family crest.

“I hope you had a nice trip. We’ve been expecting you and preparing for your stay for weeks! I am so excited to have a British guest staying with us!” The witch was smiling widely, and talking enthusiastically, even grasping Hermione’s hand - quite the difference to the demure, silent wallflower she had appeared to moments before. “I’ll show you around the house so you don’t get lost. We’ve expanded the interior some in the last years, ever since Viktor started to play professionally.”

With that Lala led Hermione out of the room as well, chattering all the way and pointing out the numerous tapestries and few portraits lining the walls. The first stop was a small but cozy room with a bed and a chest and a desk in it.

“This is your official guest room. We expanded the room and brought in some furniture since Viktor said you might actually sleep in your own room.”

“Ah.” Hermione started to wonder about her reputation in Bulgaria. “Did you expect me to sleep in Harry’s room?”

“Of course! Since you’re from Hogwarts we were not certain if you’d even bother with a room of your own, but Mother Lyubov insisted to keep up appearances at least.”

Hermione sighed. “The reputation of our school is vastly overblown.” She didn’t comment on the exact nature of her relationship with Harry. But at least there wouldn’t be any scandal if she visited him in his room. To talk privately, of course. A few movements with her wand had her clothes out of her charmed traveling bag and placed, neatly folded, in the chest.  
  
“Really?” Lala sounded almost disappointed.

“Really. You’re a muggleborn like me I take it?”

“Yes! I am Apostol’s mistress. I represent the lower house of the family in the household.” She sounded proud, then grinned. “I am also the only member of the lower house here.”

Hermione was familiar with that situation. “I know the feeling. I am the only retainer of the Potter family.”

“Oh? Didn’t your head send for someone else from your family to help you?” Lala sounded quite surprised.

“The Potter family consists currently of Harry, who is the head of the family, and myself.” Hermione smiled ruefully. It seemed Bulgarian families were far larger than British ones - although a rich family could grow quite large under one head in Britain if the children didn’t want to become emancipated and lose access to the family fortune. The wars with Grindelwald and then Voldemort had had a drastic effect though - the fate of the Potter family was an extreme example, but not that rare.

Lala had fallen silent, probably shocked by the implications. Hermione smiled, to show she was not offended by her question, and prodded her gently. “Would you mind showing me around some more? I’d like to know where the rooms of the rest of us are.”

Lala recovered and started chatting again while showing Hermione her own ‘official room’, which was rather bare, the kitchen, living room, and then the guest rooms on the upper floor, in an expanded wing opposite the quarters of the family proper.

Hermione noticed that just about all rooms were expanded magically. Again similar to the Weasleys’ home, but the walls looked far sturdier and thicker, and reinforced by spells as well. And from what she could tell by looking through the windows, there were clear lines of fire up to where wards on houses usually ended. “The house looks really solid, and easy to defend.”

Lala nodded. “Yes. It was built after the War of Liberation and since then the village withstood a number of raids by the Turks.”

“Was that before the Intervention?” That expedition had put an end to such large raids, as far as Hermione knew.

“And one after it. ‘Rogues and bandits’, the Ottomans claimed.” Lala’s expression made it clear that she didn’t believe that. “Don’t go outside the village borders by yourself. You never know who could be waiting - we patrol the borders, but sometimes bandits can slip through.”

“I won’t.” First Fleur’s tales of Barbary Coast Pirates, and now raids by Turks. This was a marked contrast to the situation at home. Britain had suffered through Voldemort’s war, of course, but after his defeat in 1981, the British wizards and witches had lived without fear of getting attacked.

Hermione tried to shift the topic of their conversation to something less troublesome, but finding out that muggleborns, half-bloods and purebloods each wore distinctive clothes in Bulgaria wasn’t that much of an improvement. And if she visited Harry to talk about those issues, everyone would assume something else was happening. Hermione kept smiling politely as she followed Lala around, but it was getting a bit difficult.

*****

Harry Potter was in heaven. He was on his Firebolt, chasing Viktor. The Bulgarian was on his new ‘Blitzschlag II’ broom, a customised and improved replacement for the broom destroyed in the last task, and both flyers were pushing the envelope. There was no snitch to catch, nor rings to fly through, not even a goal to race to. Just two expert flyers matching and surpassing each other’s maneuvers and stunts. Weaving through a small forest at close to their top speed, skimming the ground to pick flowers, corkscrewing so fast and with such tight turns Harry’s arms felt as if they were close to getting ripped out of their sockets from the g-forces - If Sirius, or worse, Hermione, saw them right now, Harry would never hear the end of it.

And he loved each and every second of it! It just felt so liberating, to enjoy the skies. Leave all the worries and annoyances on the ground. Like the Bulgarian custom that when guests were present, only pureblood family members got to speak at the table unless it was to answer questions. It didn’t take a genius to know what that would do to Hermione.

Viktor dove towards a small river, and Harry followed at once, both seekers accelerating all the way down. Viktor pulled up in the last second, the tips of his boots touching the water, almost causing him to crash. Harry was a fraction of a second faster with pulling up, but then flew through the spray of water Viktor’s boots had thrown up. He yelled with glee. They followed the river for a few turns, almost splitting the water, so close to the surface were they flying, before a small bridge appeared in front of them. A small and very low hanging bridge. Neither of them slowed down though, or tried to fly over it, even if there was less than a foot to spare between the bridge’s underside and their heads, pressed down to the broom handles.

The two wizards shot out from under the bridge and onto a small lake, where Viktor finally slowed down, stopping at the shore.

Harry joined him, a wide grin on his face. “That was great!” If all Bulgarians could train like this, it was a wonder they had lost against the Irish in the World Cup finals!

“It is a rush,” Viktor agreed. The usually stoic wizard was smiling widely as well. “Though most of us prefer hunting with brooms to acrobatics.”

“Hunting with brooms?”

“Yes. We chase through the forest, scare up game. Birds are never hexed; it’s a matter of pride to catch them with your bare hands.” Viktor grinned. “Deer is different. If you go after a deer with your wand, you’re considered weak by the village, even if they will eat the meat. If you go after a deer with your bare hands and succeed, you’re seen as a fool - but girls or boys will flock to you.”

Harry chuckled, not sure how serious his host was.

“It is said my family - my extended family - was born on a broom. We were famous for our broom cavalry in the War of Liberation. We’re still patrolling the border too, but there hasn’t been a war since Grindelwald. It’s a good thing, of course, but the older wizards and witches look down on us, call us ‘green’ and ‘inexperienced’.” Viktor looked at the lake in front of them, then to Harry. “Between us, I’d rather be called ‘green’ until I die of old age than know war.”

Harry emphatically agreed with him - though with Voldemort having returned, he knew he would very likely experience war. And sooner rather than later.

His face must have betrayed his thoughts, since Viktor clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t look like that! I know what you are thinking, but your Hermione is safe. Lala is a good woman, very friendly, and will be able to answer any question she has about our village and life.”

Harry smiled, though it was a bit forced. “It’s just quite a new experience for us.” Especially for Hermione. “Customs are different in Britain.”

“Oh, yes. The year at Hogwarts was quite the experience.” Viktor’s face changed to a slightly wistful expression. Harry didn’t feel like prying, and both rested for a few minutes on their brooms, silently gazing out over the water.

Suddenly Viktor turned to his guest again. “Let’s go hunt a few ducks for supper. Impress the witches.”

Harry wasn’t sure Hermione would be impressed, but he was not about to decline such an offer, not on a broom and not from Viktor. Catching a bird in flight… it wasn’t quite a proper seeker’s duel, especially not if it was a duck, but he would give his best anyway.

*****

“And this is the manufactory where felt boots are enchanted.”

Lala pointed at another sturdy stone building with small windows - on the outside, inside they were quite large - but this had a small, enchanted sign showing various boots over the door.

Hermione Granger spotted a woman in red robes leaving the building, and frowned. She had learned to discern the typical clothes of the different castes easily. “Are all the half-bloods doing the manufacturing, and the muggleborns tend to the fields and gardens?”

Lala nodded. “Mostly. Purebloods used to protect the village and serve in the army, since they had gone to Durmstrang. Half-bloods learned their craft at the school in Sofia, while the muggleborns were home-schooled in magic needed to grow crops and herbs. These days, muggleborns go to Sofia too, and the best half-bloods go to Durmstrang, and everyone learns some defensive spells, so there’s some overlap, but most stick with tradition.”

Hermione had noticed that the people seemed a bit less carefree than in, say, Hogsmeade. They acted more like the Gryffindors in the common room when the Weasley twins started to get excited over something - odds were the Slytherins would be suffering from whatever the two had thought of, but one could never be truly certain, or safe. “What about you?”

“Ah, I’m the mistress of Apostolos Krum. I tend to the gardens and help his mother, but I’ll mostly take care of the children we’ll have. Once he finds a wife, that is.”

Lala sounded proud of her position, so Hermione didn’t tell the other witch what she really thought of such a future.

“What’s it like at Hogwarts? Do you truly attend the same lessons as the purebloods?” The Bulgarian witch asked.

“Of course.” Hermione did not like to sound arrogant, but she couldn’t help adding: “I have been the best student of my year four years running now.” The girl needed to know that muggleborns were as good or better than any purebloods.

“Truly? And the purebloods do not take offense?”

Hermione shrugged. “Some do, but it’s their fault if they don’t study hard enough.” Or were fast enough on the draw. Though she had to admit, at least to herself, that if the teachers would not have cared, if the pureblood bigots like Malfoy had had free reign at school, and if she hadn’t been under Harry’s protection, she likely would not have been the best student of her year at Hogwarts. If she would have been at the school still. Fortunately, Hogwarts’s egalitarian reputation was well-deserved, contrary to its other reputation.

“They say Hogwarts is a lesser school since it allows muggleborns to attend it.”

Hermione scoffed. “Those are ignorant. From what I could see, we did well enough against the best Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had sent, and a fourth year Hogwarts student won the Triwizard Tournament in the end.”

“Yes, but that was the Boy-Who-lived, and the goblet chose him above the older students at his school.”

Hermione couldn’t claim Harry was not special, but at the same time she couldn’t let the misconception that Hogwarts was a bad school stand. “In my experience - and I took part in both the duelling and curse-breaking competitions - there was no significant difference between the students from the three schools.”

Lala nodded, but Hermione couldn’t tell if the Bulgarian witch believed her, or was simply being polite. The two walked past a warded garden where magical herbs were grown. A fat cat chased a gnome past them, batting the creature around with its paws.

“Are you running the household of the Boy-Who-Lived?”

Hermione chuckled. “No, no. Outside school I am living with my parents. Harry’s living with Sirius, and most of the housework is done by their elf.” There was no need to mention the Dursleys. The less people knew about Harry’s relatives, the safer they were.

“Wouldn’t your parents want you to live with your Patron so no one can steal your position?” Lala sounded honestly concerned.

“What?” Hermione shook her head. “It’s doesn’t work that way. I mean, you can’t just steal ... that.” The Oath would prevent that.

“Veela can. They can cloud a wizard’s mind, and make him forget about anyone else.” Lala nodded with obvious conviction. “A witch has to be on her guard to defend her Master.”

“Do you fear that Apostol would kick you out for a Veela?” Hermione could understand that, somewhat, after their week at Fleur’s family. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had such fears herself.

“Until we’ve had children, that could happen.”

That was touching subjects Hermione didn’t want to talk or even think about. Witches also seemed to be a bit less equal in Bulgaria than in Britain, if ‘mistress to a pureblood’ was such a coveted position for a muggleborn witch. At least Hermione didn’t think wizards had a similar option. Not that she was about to ask. She distracted Lala with questions about herbs and local animals, until it was time to return to the Krum’s house for dinner.

*****

Harry Potter was covered in feathers from a too-close catch at too-high speed, but he was laughing. Between him and Viktor - mostly Viktor, if he were honest, but the Bulgarian had far more experience - they had caught two ducks and two pigeons in edible condition and were now flying back to Krum’s village at a leisurely speed. Harry pointed at the large mansion - or castle - on the hill at the edge of the village. “Is that where the Head of your family lives?”

Krum nodded. “Yes. We will be visiting later this week, for the proper meeting. Things are a bit tense.”

“Tense? Does he not like foreigners?” Uncle Vernon had a bit of an attitude against foreigners, mostly the French.

“No, no. It’s… you’ve seen my father’s house, right? With the money I make as a seeker, it could be bigger. But that would be seen as a challenge by those in a higher position in the family. Even expanding as we did, internally, is pushing things. I did earn the gold for it with Quidditch and many think that’s not proper. The old way, the proper way to gain status, is the military. Defending the motherland. Or liberating it. But there haven’t been any wars since Grindelwald.”

“And you don’t like wars.”

“Yes. So, inviting the Boy-Who-Lived will also be seen as trying to reach for a higher position. Even though it was the proper thing to do, to return your hospitality.”

“Cursed if you do, cursed if you don’t.”

“Yes. And I’d rather do something, than do nothing. In life as in Quidditch.”

Harry agreed with that. Hermione might call him impatient at times, but he too felt doing something was better than doing nothing - usually. Sometimes it wasn’t.

*****

A few hours later, doing nothing seemed to be the best course of action. Hermione was pacing in Harry’s room and ranting while he was sitting on the bed, which was more than large enough to accommodate two people, or so Sirius had told him. Fortunately, his friend had cast a few privacy spells on the room before she exploded.

“And did you know that the muggleborns have to wear different clothes? That they think becoming the broodmare for a pureblood, producing half-blood servants, is one of the best lives a girl could have?” Hermione didn’t give him time to answer. “And the jobs they can get are also separated by castes! At least in Britain, you can’t tell if a person is a muggleborn, half-blood or pureblood simply by looking at their clothes, job or house!”

“Unless they are rich.” Harry quipped, then winced when his best friend glared at him. “Sorry.”

“And did you know that my most impressive achievement according to the village muggleborns is not being the best student in our year four years running, nor helping to kill a basilisk or placing well in competitions against students two to three years my senior? No, the villagers are impressed because I became the kept woman of a pureblood wizard before I even took my O.W.L.s!”

“But you didn’t.” Not that Harry would have minded terribly if that had happened. He wanted to take care of her, provide for all her needs, Oath or no Oath.

“That’s beside the point!” Hermione was standing in front of him, chest heaving, gesticulating wildly. Her hair had mostly thrown off the charms she had cast on it in the morning and was forming a wild, frizzy mane. Harry thought she looked cute and passionate. “And I can’t even talk at the table without causing a scandal!” she spat out.

“It’s just a week. We’ve been through worse,” he tried to console his friend.

Hermione sighed and sat down next to him, then closed her eyes and leaned back, stretching out on the bed. Harry didn’t stare at how that stretched the fabric over her chest. Much.

“I know. It’s still frustrating. I can hardly believe Viktor turned out so nice in such a country,” she muttered.

Harry frowned, unseen by her. Viktor was a great wizard and seeker, but he wasn’t that nice. Or great.

“I am almost tempted to simply stay the entire time in your room, just so I don’t blow up at anyone.”

Harry had been about to reach over and pat Hermione’s thigh reassuringly, but froze upon hearing that. “Ah…”

“Err…” Hermione hid her face with her hands.

“I know what you meant.” Harry chuckled.

“Prat.”

Harry grinned at her. “Feeling better?”

“I’ll survive the night.”

“My door’s always open for you, night or day, you know.” That earned him a pillow to the head. “Ah… I think your mind went into the gutter to take offense at my innocent offer…” That caused his friend to send every pillow in the room at him until he was pushed off the bed. But she was smiling while she did it.

*****

Dardan Curri studied the village through his enchanted glasses. Night had fallen, and most villagers would be at their homes. The target, the so-called Boy-Who-Lived, was staying in the house of Viktor Krum. It didn’t look like much, just another house in that backwards village. Quidditch had to pay less than he had thought, if Krum couldn’t afford a bigger one. Not that he minded; it would make the task of his men easier.

“I still say we should ambush the boy when he is out on his broom,” Ernir Prifti was complaining again. If he wasn’t Dardan’s cousin he’d have hexed him twice already.

“Have you seen how he flies? Or have you slept through the last two days? You want to try to ambush him when he can be out of reach in seconds? We have to catch him in their home, where he cannot simply flee.”

“He’s just a boy.” Ernir sounded like a boy right then too.

“A boy who can fly. Better than you.”

And there was no comeback for that. Everyone in the family knew that Ernir had lost two brooms to accidents as a kid.

Dardan looked at the rest of his band. Twenty wizards, unfortunately not all related to him, but even so he could trust them - within limits. All were dressed like Turks. Their employer had insisted on that, to make it appear that slavers from the Ottoman Empire were behind the attack. The Albanian mercenary was fine with that. As it happened, he’d be fine with making a bit more gold by kidnapping suitable witches or wizards for the markets in Constantinople as well. The boy wouldn’t have any need for his mistress once he was dead, after all.

“Attacking a Bulgarian village with only 20 wands is not a good idea,” Leka Xhepa, the other annoyance, said.

That wizard wasn’t related to Dardan, but he knew the land, unlike Dardan himself, who had mostly plied his trade in the western parts of the Mediterranean, and in Greece. Those were easier targets, and there was no chance to start a blood feud. Bulgarians couldn’t be that much tougher than Greeks though, Dardan thought. Leka had done well enough guiding them past the patrols, but he obviously lacked the spine a successful mercenary had to have. Dardan needed him too, though, but if the wizard would not shut up after they were done...

“We’ll be done before they know what’s happening, our distraction will make sure of that.”

It was a good plan. Set a field or two or a barn ablaze, on the other end of the village, watch the villagers run around like headless chickens, then strike at your real target. The house was heavily warded, but Fiendfyre wouldn’t care about the wards and force them out, as long as Floo travel, portkeys and Apparition were blocked. And anyone trying to fly out the few small windows would get a spell to the face. And if it was Krum… well, Dardan had lost quite a sum betting on Bulgaria at the World Cup. Krum owed him.

He checked his watch, taken from his first kidnapping victim, 15 years ago. The enchantment was not weakening, showing the time despite the darkness.

“It’s time. You know what to do. Ahmed, set fire to the fields and barn. Ernir, once you see the flames, cast the jinxes to block the Floo connection, portkeys and Apparition. The rest of you - surround the target house while disillusioned, and curse anyone that looks like Potter. Go!”

*****

Hermione Granger was woken in the middle of the night when her torc vibrated - Harry needed her! She had her wand in hand before she was fully awake. The young witch threw off her nightshirt, grabbed her robe and slipped into her shoes, then stormed out of her ‘official room’ while the enchanted garment was still closing itself around her body. She should have slept in Harry’s room!

Viktor was waiting at the foot of the stairs leading to the upper floor. She almost ran past him, but spotted Harry descending the stairs just in time. The two exchanged a look and smile, then Harry turned to Viktor and Hermione stepped behind her Patron, satisfaction filling her - she was at his side, where she belonged, ready to protect him. Sirius and Nymphadora, both not completely dressed, joined them. Hermione didn’t comment while their robes adjusted themselves, but noted that her own enchantments had been as fast, or close to.

“The village is on alert. Someone set fire to the fields in the west,” Viktor explained. “My family has gone out to help.”

“We can help as well. We’ve got some experience with fire, after all,” Harry said. Hermione didn’t think it was funny, even if Sirius chuckled. She still had some nightmares about the last task. And Harry had them as well, even if he managed to joke about it.

Viktor shook his head. “You’re our guests, it is our duty to protect you, not send you into harm’s way.”

“As your guests and as your friends we are bound to help you,” Harry countered. Hermione felt that staying where it was safe was far more reasonable, but held her tongue. She knew Harry wouldn’t see her point.

Before Viktor could respond the house shook and he jerked. “That was the fire ward… overloaded, but how… it’s not… Baba Yaga’s dancing hut, it must be Fiendfyre!”

That sent a chill down Hermione’s spine. Cursed fire, born of dark magic, consuming everything in its wake, often the caster too, until it burned itself out - it was the stuff of nightmares. Her nightmares, after the fourth task. The protective enchantments on her and Harry’s robes wouldn’t do much, if anything, against Fiendfyre! She started to tremble.

“We need to get out before it burns down the house, Harry!” She tugged on his arm and tried to pull him towards the Floo connection. They needed to get away from the fire!

“I just tried to apparate two yards. It did not work. Assume Floo travel is blocked as well.”

Nymphadora’s statement made Hermione freeze up again. The young muggleborn witch was close to hyperventilating. Caught in a burning house, cursed fire coming closer and closer… Harry needed her help, she had to make sure he was safe! Suddenly, she started to calm down. She didn’t know how, but she was not panting anymore, nor was she shaking with fright. Purpose filled her. She had to protect her Patron, she could not afford to fail him because she was too weak to do anything!

“Death Eater tactics.” Sirius’s voice was grim, no trace of the usual humour audible. “Summon your bags!”

Hermione and Harry obeyed, summoning their mokeskin bags. The clothes in the chests and armoires would be lost, but they could be easily replaced with Sirius’s money.

Harry’s godfather meanwhile had stepped to the wall next to a window. He conjured a block of stone, then transformed it into a head that looked like him and levitated it to the window. Both the window and the head were shattered by a Blasting Curse right away, showering him with splinters that were deflected by the enchantments on his robes.

“Definitely Death Eater tactics,” he commented with a dark expression. More spells followed, forcing the group to move away from their original position.

Hermione heard a crack and roar, and felt the air brush past her, from the now open window to the entrance. Smoke, not fire usually killed people, she knew that.

“Bubblehead Charms!” she yelled, and cast one herself. Everyone followed her example.

“The front door was just consumed by Fiendfyre.” Viktor confirmed what she had feared. “We need to signal the other villagers.”

“They can’t really miss a burning house.” Sirius looked grim, but kept his wand pointed at the broken window.

“But they might take too much time to reach us. The fields are quite a way from us.”

Nymphadora interrupted them: “Shut up and listen. Harry - you and Hermione use your cloak. Sirius, Viktor - disillusion yourself. I’ll distract the ones out front, Sirius blows up the back door, and then you three flee with your brooms through the upper windows. Open enough so they cannot cover all of them.” The young Auror’s tone broke no dissent.

Viktor tried it anyway. “You’re my guests! I…”

“Shut up, we are running out of time! Do what I say, now!” Nymphadora yelled at him, then turned towards the entrance hall, which was by now filled with Fiendfyre. The cursed fire seemed to be alive, monstrous forms made of flames appearing and striking at furniture and walls, turning tapestries and portraits to ashes in seconds. If the Expansion Charms started to fail… Hermione had a sudden vision of the house being filled with too much furniture for its natural space. They would be crushed, and even if they survived that, they’d be trapped, stuck helplessly in the debris while the fire burned its way towards them…

“Do it!” Sirius yelled, then started for the kitchen where the backdoor was located.

Cursing, Viktor led Harry and Hermione upstairs, summoning his own broom at the same time. They had barely reached a window when they heard screaming from Nymphadora: “Get out, get out!”, followed by the sound of a cannon blast going off. It was so loud, Hermione expected the house to shake even though it was no real explosion.

Another blast - Sirius’s. Viktor stopped cursing under his breath, and blew out all the windows in the hallway before mounting his Blitzschlag and fading from view. Hermione felt Harry’s arm around her, then she was pulled behind him. “Get on the broom!”

She complied, wrapping her arms around him. He draped his invisibility cloak over both of them. Various spells hit the windows that had blown open, some striking the walls behind them, others the frames. One blew a hole in the wall large enough to walk through, which drew more spells from below.

They were standing still for a second, and Hermione could hear the crackling, hissing cursed fire. It seemed to be far closer than she wanted. Smoke was filling the hallway, and screams could be heard outside, followed by explosions. Then Harry kicked off and they shot towards a window.

“Protego!”

A blue shield appeared in front of them, barely in time to stop and be shattered by a curse that would have struck them otherwise. Then the two were out of the window. Hermione felt a tingling sensation. They were passing a ward. For a moment, something seemed to ripple around them, blue sparks outlining them despite their invisibility cloak, then they were past it and the sparks disappeared. A failed Anti-Disillusion ward? Such things usually defeated invisibility cloaks easily. She had no time to dwell on that though.

The young witch had to hold on to Harry for dear life, wishing she had had the presence of mind to cast a Sticking Charm beforehand, since Harry went into one crazy turn after another, dodging spells that were sent at the window they had flown through, or simply into the air. More spells crossed each other on the ground below. The attackers didn’t seem to see through the cloak though, and soon they were in the clear. Harry stopped the Firebolt hundreds of yards above the village, giving them a good view of the fight and fire below. Several spells, brightly colored, were flying around - the villagers must have returned.

“Sirius…” Harry whispered, barely loud enough for Hermione to overhear. Then, louder he said: “I’ll drop you at a safe distance with the cloak. I have to help Sirius.”

Hermione was furious. Her Patron wanted to risk his life, and leave her? “Don’t be stupid! You fly, I cast, we give Sirius air cover. You’re not leaving me alone!”

Harry was silent for a moment, tense. Hermione waited. Would he order her to wait? If he did... Then the wizard slouched a bit, sighing. He held her left hand, which was gripping the front of his robe, for a moment, squeezing it gently. “OK.”

Despite the fact that they would be facing Dark Wizards, Hermione felt jubilant. Her Patron, her friend, trusted her to fight at his side. Then Harry dove at the burning house, and it was all she could do not to scream. They wouldn’t enter the house, wouldn’t get too close to that terrible fire either, she told herself...

*****

Dardan was cursing. The fight was not going as planned. Those damn villagers were attacking instead of fleeing, and the maniacs inside the burning house were still not all dead. Someone hit him with a Piercing Curse from the side, but the protections on his transfigured robes stopped most of it, and the small blow it managed to deal to him still didn’t stop him from returning a curse at the man who had attacked him. The villager went down with a scream - the poor fool had no protective robes, and his shield shattered under the spell. Dardan’s own protections were spent now though, or that curse wouldn’t have touched him at all. Until they were restored, he had to trust his Shield Charm and seek cover.

Ernir was dead already, hit by some dark curse that strangled him with his own entrails. His mother would be weeping once Dardan told her. Leka was gone - maybe dead, more likely having fled. Ahmed the fool had chased a large black dog that had simply been trying to flee, and had gotten mauled for his stupidity. At least the screams had sounded like that was happening.

The rest of his men were holding their own though. Three quarters of his remaining wands held the villagers at bay. At least he was reasonably certain about that - it wasn’t as if he could see all his men, with them having to spread out to cover the house as well as all approaches for the villagers. The rest were reducing the damned house to rubble and ashes. Or trying to - it was remarkably tough, far more than a peasant’s house had any right to be. Almost like a fortress or castle.

And Potter was still inside, casting at them regularly. No one else but the Boy-Who-Lived could have such infernal luck. But it would run out soon enough. A few more minutes, at most, and the house would collapse. Already some Expansion Charms had failed, he had seen the rippling effects, had felt the sudden increase in heat when the fire had gotten more fuel at once. Soon the upper floor where the boy was moving around would collapse and he would burn. There was no way out - they had wrecked his broom, and the wards defeated his disillusion spells.

“Don’t let up, remember the gold!” he shouted, aided by an Amplifying Charm, before sending another Cutting Curse at a witch in a white robe who had moved a bit too close. She went down as well. Unprepared fools.

He took a step to the side, trampling some night-active herb that tried to grasp his boots, and crouched down behind a transfigured rock to cover his back while he watched the house. There! Movement on the upper floor! He sent another Reductor Curse at the wall covering the boy, and was rewarded with a scream. Yes! Another curse should finish the boy off, or take out the floor and send him into the inferno on the ground floor…

Before he could cast though the earth around him exploded, and he was flung through the air. Dazed, he got up on one knee, pointing his wand around. Who had cast… then something stepped out of the darkness and he froze with fear. Red eyes and white teeth, fur darker than pitch black. It hadn’t been a dog Ahmed had chased! It was a grim, the messenger of death himself! Before Dardan could cast, or flee, or even move again, the monster pounced. His wand and hand were crushed between those terrible jaws, and he screamed, trying to break free with increasing desperation.

When the grim released his mangled hand he felt elation, hope despite the pain from his wounds. He would live! Before he could get his portkey though the monster leaped at him again. Paws landed on his chest, pushing him back. He staggered over the rubble behind him, lost his balance and fell down. Dardan didn’t understand why the grim was not attacking again, just standing there, until he saw the cursed fire licking at his robes and boots. Then he felt the heat on his skin, smelt his hair burning, saw his robe melting on his legs, and started to scream. The Albanian almost missed the grim changing into a wizard and smiling at him, before the shape-changer’s curse tore out his entrails.

*****

Nymphadora Black-Tonks was done for, she knew that. Not even John McClane would be able to escape from this. She was on the first floor of a burning house, whose Expansion Charms were failing one after another, shaking the walls and even foundations. Fiendfyre had turned the entire ground floor in an inferno and was now following the damned wood paneling up to the floor she was on. She could barely see anything inside the house, and outside a bunch of Death Eaters was waiting for her to show herself so they could curse her again.

Not that she could move much, not anymore, not even using her metamorphmagus talent. Shifting from one form to another had helped with the first wounds she had taken, but she couldn’t work miracles. She was back to her own form now, for all the good it did her. The young Auror had lost her broom, and almost her life, when she had tried to escape through a window early in the fight, to be caught by spells crossing her path, driving her back.

At least the Bubblehead Charm was still working and she had some cover left. The spells reinforcing the walls were very strong, or the house would have imploded or exploded long ago. Though given the fate waiting for her, maybe dropping the charm would be a good choice. She might suffocate to death before the fire reached her and burned her alive. At least the children had managed to escape. Her parents would be devastated, but she had known this could happen when she signed up for Auror training.

The witch looked at the tattered remains of her robe. Top of the line, a gift from her mother for her graduation. Expensive as hell, but it had saved her life multiple times this evening. Though in the end it had not been enough. She coughed, pain stabbing her chest, and for a moment she wondered if her Bubblehead Charm had failed. No, the air was still clean and cool. The charm was still working. It was her lungs that were not working right anymore, she was coughing blood.

Maybe she would die before the flames reached her. Or not - the house shook again, and the floor started to tilt beneath her. Slowly at first but gaining speed she felt herself sliding down, towards the cursed fire on the ground floor. She tried to scream, but her lungs were not cooperating.

Then she was yanked up and into the air, away from the inferno raging below her. The last thing she saw before she passed out from the pain that filled her was Viktor fucking Krum sitting on his broom with his wand pointed at her while spells splashed against his shield.

*****

Harry Potter stood next to Viktor, staring at the remains of the star seeker’s house. All that was left of it were ashes and still smoking rubble. The Fiendfyre had spread too quickly for anything to be saved. Harry didn’t say anything - what could he say that would not sound empty and stupid?

The house was not even the worst loss the family had suffered. Lala was dead, killed by a Cutting Curse when she had tried to reach the house to cast the same flame-extinguishing charms she had used on the fields before. More bodies were found all over the battlefield. Most of them belonged to the bandits, but there were dead villagers too. More had been wounded - over a dozen were in the hospital in Sofia, suffering from dark curses or complicated wounds or both. Nymphadora was among them. The Auror was alive, though Harry didn’t know how. Probably some metamorphmagus ability. There had been so much blood, if not for that potion from Viktor...

Harry felt an arm slip around his waist, and a body press into his side. Hermione. She like him was still covered in soot. Her hair was a mess, but she was unharmed. Like Sirius. His godfather was in Sofia, arranging an international portkey back to London via Vienna and Paris. It did not feel right to leave the Krums, not after that night, but Harry couldn’t do much, couldn’t do anything here, and staying would only cause his godfather, and his retainer, to worry. And they had been through more than enough already.

Harry glanced at the bodies lined up nearby, then looked away again. Some of them had been maimed by teeth and fangs, the work of Sirius’s animagus form. Harry didn’t know how to feel about that. It was one thing to send curses or transfigured animals at an enemy, but to bite and savage them as an animal? Sirius’s robes had been covered with blood when he had ranted at Harry and Hermione for returning to the battle before hugging them. Harry hoped he could look at his godfather again without remembering that scene too vividly.

“Is it weird that I can only think that it was a good thing that we had not yet built a bigger house?” Viktor asked without averting his gaze from the ruins.

“You’re still in shock, it’s a normal reaction,” Hermione pointed out, probably glad to find something to distract herself as well.

“I see.”

The three stood there in silence again.

“Thank you for saving Nymphadora.” Harry had to say something before it became unbearable.

“What kind of man would I be to leave her to die?” Viktor’s voice was still lacking any emotion. Still in shock.

Like himself, Harry thought, and like Hermione. He felt numb, and guilty. They had fought, and probably killed last night. Casting from the air, under his father’s cloak, at night. It was as far from the heroic tales one found in books, even in history books sometimes, as one could get without poisoning someone’s food or drink. And yet the bandits had deserved it. They had come to kill them. He didn’t know why they had done it. Slavers used similar tactics to flush their victims out, Viktor’s father had told them, but these attackers had been going for the kill.

They had deserved it, and even those who had been taken alive would likely be executed for their crimes, and yet... Harry’s excuses and reasons didn’t help with the guilt he felt. When he closed his eyes he still saw men exploding, burning, getting cut. Hermione must be feeling the same, he knew. He had failed her. Failed to protect her. He should have ordered her to remain safe, and yet, if he had done so, he knew he would have hurt her even worse than she had to be hurting now. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t, indeed.

Hermione’s voice addressing Viktor shook him from his morbid thoughts: “If you saved Nymphadora, does she owe you a life debt now?”

That made both Viktor and Harry turn their attention to the young witch. Harry didn’t know what Viktor muttered in response, but he was sure it was not printable.

*****

“What do you have for us?” Auror Kenneth Fenbrick asked when he walked into the office he shared with his partner, Bertha Limmington.

“Remember that attack on Viktor Krum and Harry Potter last week?” She didn’t look up from whatever she was reading. Typical.

“I’ve read about it. Wasn’t that in Bulgaria? Turkish ‘bandits’, Fiendfyre and Killing Curses, open and shut case?” Kenneth sat down on the edge of her desk, smirking when he saw her frown. She hated that. Just as he disliked her not fully paying attention to him.

“The Bulgarian Aurors finished interrogating the surviving attackers. They were Albanians mostly, not Turks, and were specifically hired to kill the Boy-Who-Lived. By a wizard with a British accent.” Now she looked up at him, her expression as serious as usual.

Kenneth whistled. “That’s bound to make some waves. Do you think it’s the same wizard who tried to sabotage the tournament?”

His partner nodded. “It would fit. The accent could be faked, but the DoM identified the robe as the custom work of Madam Malkin thanks to pensieve memories of the meeting with our mystery wizard the Bulgarians sent us. Apparently the kind of self-cleaning charm that was triggered when he spilled a drink on himself is distinctive in its effect. Something about a ‘flower pattern’ for the effect.”

Kenneth closed his eyes and held up his finger. “I’ve got a vision! I see us two, heading to Madam Malkin’s, getting a list of her customers, and then working through the list, asking annoyed rich wizard after annoyed rich wizard where they have been two or three weeks ago. How am I doing as a seer?” He grinned at the witch.

“It’s standard procedure.” His partner still had not found her missing sense of humour.

Sighing, he stood up. “Let’s get to it then.”

*****

Six hours later, Kenneth was certain he would have been better off as a seer. They had received a dozen names from the tailor shop, each one richer and more arrogant and more annoying than the other. They were up to number five on the list now, and if he had not been sure Bertha would arrest him without hesitation, Kenneth would have hexed a couple already and claimed they were resisting arrest or obstructing justice or something.

Number five, or Malcolm Branwick, seemed to be a difficult one too. Not surprisingly - he had admitted having supported the Death Eaters in the last war with gold, if not his wand, but had claimed he had been forced to after the war was over. Like so many others. Kenneth shook his head and used the door knocker again. He heard the gong inside go off, but no one came to open the door. He exchanged a glance with his partner. Branwick was too rich not to have a house elf who’d answer the door even if he was absent. If the elf was not opening the door, then he or she would have been ordered not to…

“In the name of the Ministry, open this door for the Aurors!”

Kenneth rolled his eyes at Bertha. “This sounds so pompous.”

“It’s the official command.”

They waited a few minutes, as per standard procedure. “I am calling it in. We’ll need a Curse-Breaker team to deal with the wards.” Kenneth sighed. More paperwork. But he didn’t fancy breaking into the house of an old family, not with the wards still up. That was a nasty way to commit suicide.

Bertha nodded. “We can go ask number six on the list while they work.”

Kenneth sighed. So much for taking a break while the curse-breaking boys worked. Then he blinked. Had that been the hint of a smile on his partner’s face? He narrowed his eyes, but Bertha was not showing anything but her usual determination now.

*****

They were finished with number six when the Curse-Breakers were done. It had been amusing, for Kenneth at least. That rich old wizard had been hitting on his partner without any subtlety or shame, referring to his wealth and influence in every sentence, but he had stayed so clearly within the borders of politeness and traditions that Bertha had had to endure it with a forced smile. And for the last ten minutes after they had left she had twitched each time Kenneth had mentioned ‘gold’ ‘old family’ or ‘good breeding’. Life was good.

When they reached the door, he grew serious though and drew his wand. One never knew what awaited an Auror in a suspect’s house, and that went double for the mansions of the old families. The rumors he had heard about the cleaning of No 12, Grimmauld Place were enough to send shivers down his spine. Only a madman would want to live in such a place - but then, Sirius Black had spent a decade in Azkaban, he was bound to be crazy, and the Boy-Who-Lived was suicidal judging by how he flew in a Quidditch match, or so his nephew had told him.

“DMLE, Aurors Fenbrick and Limmington! We’re coming in with wands drawn!” he shouted before he pushed the door open with a spell. No curse flew out, so he quickly ducked around the door frame and took a look inside. A small body caught his attention in the middle of the entrance hall. “We’ve got a stunned or dead house elf here.”

Bertha nodded, and both stepped inside. No trap triggered, no one seemed to notice them. No portraits even. The house elf was dead, Cutting Curse to the throat. That was not good news. They proceeded with even more caution. Fifteen minutes later they had cleared the ground floor. The mansion was inhabited, the pantry well-stocked, the rooms clear.

“Upstairs.”

Kenneth nodded and took point. His partner was a stick in the mud, but she was still his partner, and he was better in a duel, so it fell to him to go in front. If only she would reward such bravery and gallantry properly! If she had been a Gryffindor instead of such a Ravenclaw…

Upstairs the door to the room overlooking the street was ajar. Kenneth stepped up and again took a quick glance inside.

“Someone’s at the desk, slumped over,” he informed Bertha.

Both entered carefully, taking care not to disturb anything. There was a bottle on the desk, and an empty glass next to it.

“It’s Peruvian Chameleon Viper poison, at least according to the label.” He looked at his partner.

“Such a viper was used in a failed attack during the third task.” She was not a Ravenclaw for nothing.

On the desk were notes with Potter’s traveling schedule, contact addresses in Albania and a payment note from Gringotts, for gold transferred to Tirana.

“That looks pretty damning.” Maybe a bit too damning, Kenneth thought. “But who killed him?”

“It could be suicide. He realised we were onto him, and would be able to match his schedule to the traveling done by the instigator. That would mean he’d be interrogated with Veritaserum,” Bertha speculated.

“He could have fled.” Kenneth would have, in his place.

“I checked with the tax collectors while you were taking a break. He would have lost most of his fortune if he fled since it was tied up in land and buildings. Easy to confiscate. Hard to move.”

Kenneth nodded. Many of the richest purebloods would rather die than become poor. Or so he heard often enough. “Plausible enough. Let’s see what else we can find out.”

*****

Albus Dumbledore sighed, looking at the headlines of the Daily Prophet. ‘Saboteur found, killed himself!’ It looked like Harry would dominate the front pages for another week, just when the frenzy of articles covering the attack in Bulgaria had started to fade. The boy would be hounded in public again. Worse even, with the saboteur apparently found, the security measures taken by the Ministry would be relaxed, or even lifted completely. Everyone liked a neatly solved case. Even the Order members would not remain as vigilant as they should be. And Albus couldn’t say anything without tipping off Voldemort that he was aware of his return.

“Well played, Tom.” He raised a lemon drop in a mocking salute before popping it into his mouth.

*****


	15. Consequences

**Chapter 15: Consequences**

“No! Harry! No!”

Harry Potter closed his eyes, ground his teeth, and held on to his friend even though each of her cries felt like blow to him. Hermione was having a nightmare, the same she had been having in the two nights before, since the attack. She was sweating, trembling, and he couldn’t do anything but hold her, and feel guilty.

It was his fault that she was suffering. If not for him, if he had not been there, those bandits would not have attacked, and Hermione wouldn’t see the Fiendfyre rushing at her in her dreams, wouldn’t feel as if she was back at the last task, burning alive. Wouldn’t see him dying, bleeding, burning.

“It’s OK, Hermione. You’re safe. I’m safe.”

He held her and whispered in her ear. They were in the best hotel in the Magical Quarter in Sofia, in a cozy room with lots of dark wood paneling on the walls, and a massive canopy bed in the middle, with heavy dark blue drapes. Viktor’s family had offered to make arrangements for their guests, since they had been attacked while under their roof, but Sirius had insisted on moving, citing the need to be close to Nymphadora, who was at the magical hospital in the capital of Bulgaria. With Floo connections and Apparition available, there was no need to actually stay in Sofia - Viktor himself visited daily - but the polite fiction satisfied the honour of all involved. And getting away from the village, from the constant reminders of the battle, had helped them as well.

Harry felt the witch in his arms stiffen and knew she had woken up. Before she could say anything, he whispered again: “You’re safe, Hermione. We’re safe.”

She sighed deeply, but didn’t roll away. “What time is it?”

“It’s 1 am,” Harry answered, after a glance at his enchanted watch.

“Did you sleep yet?”

Harry didn’t answer, which was enough for her to know he had not. If he had slept he’d have likely woken up from a nightmare of his own in which Hermione, Sirius and Nymphadora all burned to death while he was forced to watch by Voldemort.

“You need to sleep as well, Harry. Maybe you should…”

“No!” Harry said firmly. He’d not take a potion of Dreamless Sleep. It would make him sleep, yes - and likely to sleep so deeply, he’d miss another attack.

Hermione didn’t argue. She too had refused to take the potion, with that very argument. Harry had been tempted to order her to take it. He’d keep watch over her, keep her safe. He had been tempted, but he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t hurt her like that.

His best friend, his love, sighed. “I’ll not go back to sleep until you are asleep. And I’ll know if you’re trying to fake it,” she stated sternly.

Harry smiled at how familiar she sounded. That was his Hermione, his best friend, looking out for him for his own good. She had not sounded like that since the attack. He sighed, the fleeting moment of warmth gone. It was his fault that Hermione was not, had not been herself.

Before he could voice his thoughts though Hermione dressed him down: “Don’t you dare blame yourself again, Harry Potter! I told you, it’s not your bloody fault, and I’ll not let you take the blame that belongs to whatever madman hired those bandits!”

Harry held up the arm not wrapped around his witch in a placating gesture even he could barely see in the darkness of the room. “I won’t,” he said. Lied. He did blame himself. He knew it was irrational, as Hermione had explained, but part of him thought he deserved to suffer through his nightmares. If he had not wanted to return to the fight to save Sirius Hermione would not have come with him. And would not have fought to kill. And would not… well, she’d still have nightmares from the fire.

“Good.”

Hermione sounded satisfied, and he relaxed a bit. Last night, when he had blamed himself, she had exploded. She had both cried and ranted at him for feeling guilty at the same time, then, once she had spent her rage, had apologized for her outburst and explained that it was a normal reaction to blame himself for things out his control. And then she had still told him not to do it again. That was his Hermione, contradictions and passion and all.

He smiled and pulled her closer, ignoring her surprised yelp as well as her weak attempts to push back until she gave up and rested her head on his chest.

“Hmph.”

Holding her, he fell asleep, and for the remainder of the night, the nightmares were held at bay.

*****

Hermione Granger was sitting in their room in the hotel, in a leather seat that could have handled Hagrid’s size without problems, pretending to read a book. It was a cheap move, but she needed some time to think for herself, and Harry was not likely to leave her alone otherwise. Well, he would, if she asked him to, but… that would hurt him. He was already feeling guilty for what had happened, she couldn’t do that to him. So she pretended to be fascinated by the book in her lap instead and hoped that Harry, who was not leaving her out of his sight anyway, would be fooled. It was not honest, but it was the best she could do.

And she really needed to think, without any distractions. Such as feeling Harry’s arms around her body, his breath on her neck, his heart beating… she took a deep breath. Their recent sleeping arrangements did wonders against their nightmares, but didn’t help the kind of dreams she really should not have while sleeping in Harry’s arms. If she ever did anything thinking she was still dreaming…

The young witch forced herself to focus. She had realised the day after the battle that something had not been right. Since the last task, she had had issues with fire. Sure, she had not shied away from fire anymore after a week or so, but the Fiendfyre should have terrified her. Had terrified her. As had the fighting. And yet when Harry had wanted to return to the battle, she had not been afraid anymore. She had needed to help Harry, to keep him safe, and that had been enough to push away her own fear.

That had been the damned oath at work, of course. She knew she was not that brave, Gryffindor though she might be. But such reckless bravery was what she had read about during her research of life debts and the Patron Oath. That urge to help, to protect, to save her Patron. No matter how it had helped her protect Harry, it felt wrong on a fundamental level to be manipulated like that. Like a puppet dancing to the strings of magic. Purebloods might accept that, even embrace it, but she did not. She was no pureblood. And she’d not remain a slave to that oath her whole life. She was Hermione Granger, and she was no one’s puppet. Not society’s, not magic’s!

Not even Harry’s.

She glanced at her friend. He was sitting on the bed, his back resting against a couple cushions, a book in his lap, propped up by his knees. Pretending to read, no doubt. She wanted to walk over, hug him, comfort him, until he finally accepted that he was not at fault, until he listened to her. But was that, too, just the oath driving her?

Although, despite all her research, no book had mentioned the Patron Oath being able to cause love. Absence of evidence was not evidence of absence, of course. But wouldn’t someone, anyone, have mentioned it, if it was possible? It wasn’t as if this was some obscure question only a few academics might care about.

Hermione took a deep breath, closed her book, and stood up. She still had doubts, of course. She was not the prettiest witch, nor the most likeable. And just because she really, really wished that what she was feeling, and what Harry was feeling, was not the result of magic didn’t mean that it was the case. But neither did it mean that it was not.

And so she sat down next to Harry and gently and carefully took his book away. It wouldn’t do to damage a book, after all. He was staring at her, had been staring since the moment she had stood up.

“Hermione?”

She just smiled, pushed him down on the bed, and then snuggled up to him. Sometimes, believing in something hard enough was enough.

*****

Nymphadora Black-Tonks looked quite different from the vibrant witch they knew when she was just lying there, unconscious, in the hospital bed, Harry Potter thought. Three days, and she still was like this. The Healers claimed she was recovering nicely, but he could not see it. The young metamorphmagus looked frail, vulnerable, almost delicate - nothing seemed to even hint at the energetic, brave Auror he knew. Maybe it was the lack of teasing and outright lewd remarks from her and Sirius. He had gotten used to the banter, he realised. It had become part of what he thought of as home. As family.

Sirius was staring at his cousin with an expression Harry had last seen on his face at Pettigrew’s trial. It was as if his face had been frozen, turned into a mask, with only his eyes showing emotion. Harry suddenly saw his godfather’s face covered in blood, right after the fight, an evil smile on his lips as he watched the bodies of the bandits getting laid out. The young wizard briefly closed his eyes, banishing the thought. He didn’t want to see that when thinking of Sirius. He couldn’t help it though. Even worse, he knew that it was in his defence that Sirius had killed. That Nymphadora had gotten hurt. Guilt tore at him again. So many of his family were suffering and he was not even hurt!

He lifted his hand, about to reach out to his godfather, then hesitated, suddenly uncertain. What if Sirius shrugged him off? Or got angry at him, saying it was Harry’s fault they had been attacked? A hand on his back gently pushed him forward - Hermione. He looked over his shoulder at her, and saw her nodding towards Sirius. She was trying to smile encouragingly, but she looked so sad, he wanted to hug her right then. Before he could act on that though, his friend pushed him towards Sirius again.

He nodded to her, then stepped next to his godfather and put his hand on his shoulder. Sirius stiffened, and for a horrible moment, Harry was sure he’d be pushed away. Then the man wrapped his arms around Harry, pulling him towards him almost desperately.

“Oh Harry…” Sirius whispered, and for a moment, the young wizard thought his godfather would break down and cry. He didn’t though, just held on to him for minutes, trembling, before finally releasing him.

Harry saw the animagus was smiling in silent gratitude, but his eyes remained haunted. Harry nodded at him, then turned to watch Nymphadora again. Hermione stepped forward, but not to his side, stopping a half-step behind him. Even in such a situation, in a hospital room watching a hurt member of their family, they were keeping up appearances. Harry wanted to curse something, someone. Wanted to scream, to rant at stupidity of it. But he controlled himself. They had come so far, he had no right to throw it all away.

Viktor had been standing there without saying a word. Harry wasn’t certain if he had been ignoring their reactions out of politeness or respect, or if he honestly was so captivated by the witch in the bed. If there was a life debt, that would be not out of the ordinary - Harry knew that from Hermione’s experiences.

The Bulgarian wizard must have noticed Harry looking at him, since he spoke for the first time since he had greeted the others upon arrival. “I see her lying there, and I want to do anything to make her recover faster. A witch so brave and skilled should not be in such a state.”

That did sound like a life debt to Harry. Or like what he felt as a Patron for his retainer. He looked at Hermione, who was biting her lower lip. She must be thinking the same. Poor Viktor. Not that Harry regretted saving Hermione, and becoming her Patron had been the best thing that happened to him in his whole life, but life debts were serious, dangerous things. “So… you think there is a debt?”

Viktor took a hissing breath, but did not answer.

“Debt?” Sirius looked at them. “What debt? Who needs money?”

“We’re wondering if Nymphadora’s actions have caused a life debt. She did sacrifice herself for us, after all,” Hermione explained.

“Oh.” Sirius frowned, and remained silent for a moment. “No, I do not think a life debt was created.”

“Why not?” Viktor asked, a hint of anger audible in his voice. “She risked her life for us!”

“Yes, she did,” Sirius agreed, “but it takes more than risking your life to create a life debt. You have to save someone else’s life by risking yours.”

“But she did!” Hermione exclaimed. “She sacrificed herself to create a diversion so we could escape!”

Sirius shook his head. “She did, and it helped without a doubt, but we would not have died for certain without her selfless action. We could have escaped through the windows anyway, for example, or held out a bit longer, until the villagers arrived.” He smiled at Hermione. “When Harry saved you from the troll you were helpless, and would have died without his brave but very, very lucky action. But if the same situation happened again today and Harry would risk his life and defeat the troll, it would not create a life debt, since you are now a skilled witch, and probably could defeat a troll, or at least escape. A life debt will not be created just because the people involved believe it.”

“Ah.” Hermione was not satisfied yet though. “But Viktor stated he wanted to do anything to help her. That’s just how I felt after Harry had saved me.”

Sirius chuckled at that, and Harry frowned. He didn’t see what was so amusing. Life debts were serious!

“Hermione, that’s a normal reaction. Not all bonds are magical. There’s the bond of friendship, there’s family, there’s love. If you have fought side by side, risked your life in battle with your comrades, then it would be weird not to form a bond. Back in the war, I grew very close to my comrades in arms, and would have done anything for them. And they would have done anything for me. Especially the witches,” he added with a leer.

Harry was at the same time embarrassed and happy to see Sirius joke inappropriately again. Hermione probably felt the same, since she did not chide him for it. He glanced over, and saw that she was lost in her thoughts. That did not happen often, so he was very curious what would occupy her mind like that. He’d have to ask her later.

“I see,” Viktor stated gravely. “The older wizards and witches, those who who fought in the last war, spoke of similar things. Of ties of friendship and honour.” He looked at the sleeping metamorphmagus. “Easy to mistake for a life debt, then, for those who are not familiar with such things.”

Sirius nodded, then added in a long-suffering tone and with a glance at Harry and Hermione “Oh, yes. Emphasis on ‘mistake’.” He ignored Harry’s glare, and for a bit at least, Harry’s family was back to normal.

*****

After the Mediterranean, and the Black Sea, Britain’s climate left a lot to be desired, temperature-controlling charms on her clothes or not, Hermione Granger thought. Or it might be just the circumstances of their return - earlier than planned, and with a still wounded Nymphadora - that made it seem so. On one level, it almost felt like running away, fleeing and leaving Viktor’s family and village to deal with the aftermath of the attack. Intellectually, she knew that that was not true though. The attackers had come for Harry, not for the Bulgarians. There was no reason for another attack on the village. And yet… what if it happened anyway? If actual Ottoman raiders came over the border? Would more villagers die, like Lala?

Hermione closed her eyes, leaning back. She was in her room in her parents’ house, and should be working on runes. But instead of ways to protect electronics, Lala was on her mind. She felt guilty when she thought of the young Bulgarian witch who had welcomed her so warmly, when everyone else had been distant. And how had she repaid that? By looking down on Lala for her goals in life. Hermione had not shown her disdain, of course, but she had wanted to scoff at Lala’s pride in becoming a pureblood’s mistress. The British witch had even been rather angry when she had realised that Lala thought she shared those goals.

And then Lala had died defending her home, and her guests. Hermione’s family. While Hermione had looked down on the Bulgarian for her goals in life. And now she’d never be able to apologize. Telling herself that Lala hadn’t known about Hermione’s opinion of her path in life only made her feel more ashamed of herself.

Ashamed, and concerned. In hindsight, Hermione realised that she had been so affected by Lala’s views since the situation of the Bulgarian had been rather too close to her own. She was a muggleborn herself, and in love with a pureblood. She knew most wizards and witches expected her to become Harry’s mistress, his ‘other witch’. Some called it ‘wife of his heart’, or something like it. Most expected Harry to marry a proper pureblood witch to have a proper pureblood heir with. A few might expect Harry to follow his father’s example and live with Hermione in concubinage. But no one expected her to become his equal, his partner, his ‘proper wife’. In the eyes of Wizarding Britain, Hermione was and would remain the muggleborn who had to know and stay in her place.

And she could not stand that thought!

Hermione closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Getting angry at what she had known for years served no purpose. And it distracted her from something else she had to consider carefully: staying with Harry - in whatever position that might be - was dangerous. Voldemort wanted him dead, and whoever stood with Harry would be sharing his fate.

Hermione stared at the ceiling. Harry had hinted at that before. She had told him off, of course. Lala’s death also showed that a witch wasn’t safe even if she was not the best friend of Harry Potter. She knew that muggleborns had not fared well in the last war. People didn’t talk about that, but the newspaper articles she had seen painted a rather clear picture. And Hermione had made a lot of enemies already. She had shown up just about every rich pureblood at school by beating them at magic, and they would not forget that. The likes of Malfoy would use the first opportunity to destroy her - one way or the other. Thinking of Malfoy, the young witch sneered. As if she’d let that foul cretin dictate how she would live her life!

Not that it mattered anyway. Harry was her best friend. Her love. She’d stay with him, to the end. Suddenly, she had to snort. She sounded like one of the witches in Lavender’s books. But it fit. She only hoped it was love and not magic making her think like this.

*****

“Sirius? Can we talk?”

Harry Potter hated how timid he sounded, but he couldn’t help it. He really didn’t want to talk about this, not with Sirius. But Hermione was right - they had to talk about this, before it poisoned their relationship. Theirs with Sirius, not their own.

Harry’s godfather dropped the Prophet he had been reading on the sideboard next to his seat, and looked at the two teenagers, smirking. “Harry, you just sounded like one my old ex-girlfriends.” He raised his eyebrows at them when neither chuckled, then pouted. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Should I say ‘it’s serious’ so you can make an even worse joke?” Harry asked.

That made the other wizard pout even more. But he whipped his wand out and summoned another chair. “Have a seat then, you two, and let’s see how I can help you.” Judging by the grin on his face, he expected them to blush, protest, or summon another chair.

They did nothing of the sort. Harry simply sat down, and Hermione slid into his lap. The closeness would help, or so he hoped. And the brief but pleased surprise on Sirius’s face was a welcome sight. It didn’t feel like it was a facade.

Of course, that was the moment Sirius held a hand to his mouth in an exaggerated gesture and gasped. “You’re not telling me that I am about to become a great-godfather? I did tell you about contraception spells, after all!”

“What? No!” Hermione blurted out while Harry was gaping. Then both glared at the wizard laughing like a hyena at them.

“It’s about the attack in Bulgaria.”

Sirius stopped laughing at once at hearing Harry’s words. He almost seemed to deflate, leaning back in his seat and staring at the floor for a moment. “Oh. I should have seen that coming.” He looked at them both. “You handled yourself so well, I forgot you’re not used to that kind of battle.”

That wasn’t what Harry wanted to talk about, but it might be a way to ease into it. “It wasn’t that bad while we were in the battle.”

It had been rather easy, actually, to attack those bandits with lethal spells. Too easy, Harry thought. Hermione believed it was the Patron Oath at work. Harry was inclined to agree, to a point - he thought he’d have killed anyone attacking Hermione without the oath, but Hermione was still concerned they were influenced far more than they thought by that piece of old magic. He pulled Hermione closer to him and rested his chin on her shoulder.

Sirius nodded. “That’s not uncommon. You start casting, you fight and you kill, and you do not really realise just what you have done. Until it’s suddenly over, and you have time to think.” He shook his head. “Harry, those wizards were trying to kill you and all of us. Or worse,” he added with a glance at Hermione. “You shouldn’t feel bad at what you had to do to protect yourself, and those you love.”

Hermione had told Harry the same. It would have been more convincing if she had at least looked like she was following her own advice. Harry snorted. His love must have understood what he was thinking, since she pinched the back of his hand. He ignored it. Sirius had given him an opening, of sorts.

“I am not concerned about feeling guilty.” Not that concerned, at least. “But I am concerned about, you know, getting used to it.”

Hermione had picked up what he was doing. “We’re afraid we might get so used to it, we’ll start to use Fiendfyre ourselves.”

Harry didn’t think either of them would ever use that, not after almost burning to death twice in a few months, but it was close enough to what they actually wanted to talk about.

“You would be stupid to use Fiendfyre! Even the strongest wizards - or witches - can barely control it, and many have been killed by their own creation.” Sirius shook his head. “There are better curses that will not turn on you.”

Harry pinched Hermione before she could start asking what spells Sirius had in mind. Sometimes, his love was a bit too intent on learning all that she could. “But aren’t those curses dangerous to the caster in other ways? You know, the Dark Arts?”

“Ah.” Sirius nodded in understanding. “Well, as you know, my family was rather … knowledgeable about the Dark Arts. So, just growing up, I picked up a lot, despite my difficulties with my relatives.” He leaned forward. “I guess you’ve heard all the tales of dark wizards, empowered by dark rituals and working dark magic, spreading death and misery, while they are getting corrupted by the Dark Arts?”

Harry and Hermione nodded. Some of the tales had sounded like the sort of cautionary tales adults made up to scare children into behaving, but others had sounded far less far-fetched.

“Well, they are not exactly wrong, but not exactly true either. What we call the ‘Dark Arts’ are basically spells and other magic used to harm others - to wound, control or kill. They are not inherently evil, nor do they damage your soul, or make you ‘go dark’, or whatever the idiots want you to believe.”

Hermione opened her mouth, probably to protest, but Harry’s godfather held up his hand and stopped her. “There is magic which does all that. Magic which truly deserves to be called The Dark Arts. There are rituals that have costs beyond what sacrifices they call for. Spells that harm the caster as much as the target, but in other ways. Magic more dangerous, all things considered, than Fiendfyre. One mistake, and you may even lose your soul.” He looked at them both, then nodded, apparently satisfied they were listening. “But most of the spells that harm, control or kill a target are not like that. Not even the unforgivables.”

Harry felt Hermione tense up at hearing that. No surprise there - they had been told how evil those spells were quite often.

Sirius chuckled, but it lacked any humour. “My father used to say that the Ministry simply classified any spell as ‘dark’ if it was good enough to be used effectively in battle. He wasn’t wrong. The Ministry is using a legal definition, not a magical one. Using the Killing Curse won’t magically damage your soul anymore than using a Blasting Curse will.”

That was too much for Hermione. “Why are they outlawing the spells then? If a spell is not inherently dangerous, then the only thing that matters should be how and what you use it for!”

“They may not magically damage you or your soul, but they are not safe.” Sirius sighed, and leaned back. “Some scholars claim magic is all about intent. They aren’t completely correct, but intent matters. To cast the Killing Curse you have to hate your target very much. The more hatred you feel, the easier it gets to cast. And the more you cast it, the more you get used to hating others. It’s a vicious cycle, and in the end, you will have damaged yourself. Or your soul.” He smiled, but with a rather vicious expression. “So, stick to other spells. There are a lot of spells that can kill almost as easily, but without that kind of requirements. Most of them are family secrets of course - what the Ministry doesn’t know it cannot outlaw.

Harry nodded - it made sense. It didn’t answer the question he had started this talk for, though.

“Can we learn such spells?” Hermione, of course, had latched onto that part of the explanation.

Sirius smiled, but without humour showing in his expression. “I think you two have to learn such spells. Voldemort is out there, and he’ll come after you again.”

Harry interrupted the two before they could start discussing training schedules. “But… isn’t there a danger in getting used to killing as well? That one starts to kill far too quickly?” What he really had wanted to know was whether Sirius had started to kill too quickly, or easily. But he couldn’t ask that.

“Yes, there is. But if people want to kill you or yours, killing them before they succeed is usually the best answer. Both the Potters and the Blacks agreed on that.” Sirius bared his teeth as if he was in his dog form. “As long as you don’t start killing people who cut in line before you or insult you, you’re fine.”

Harry didn’t share that opinion, not completely, but he could understand it. If anyone wanted to attack Hermione he’d rather kill them than let them succeed. So he nodded. Sirius didn’t sound as if he was about to turn into a dark wizard on them. Or for them.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sirius transforming into a dog, and jumping onto Hermione’s lap, licking both their faces. Hermione shrieked and squirmed, distracting Harry even more, and the old dog was out of the room, barking loudly, before either of the teenagers could take revenge.

*****

Sirius Black leaned against the door with his eyes closed. Neither Harry nor Hermione would be able to break into his room, not for another year or two at least, so there was no need to pretend anymore. He slowly slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor. That talk had been difficult. He didn’t like talking about those kind of things. It brought back too many dark memories. From his childhood, from the war, from … that time. But the two kids - his children in all but blood - had needed it. And, he thought with some pride, he had managed to help them.

Harry’s question at the end… if his boy knew how close to the mark he had hit… Sirius whimpered, the need to shift becoming too strong. As a dog, life was simple. No conscience that tormented him, no guilt to make him feel bad. Just gut feelings and instinct. Defend, hunt, kill. Being a dog had saved his mind and soul, in… that place. He had spent almost all his time as a dog. Any time spent as a man had been torture. Ten years he had been more dog than wizard. Padfoot, not Sirius Black.

He knew he couldn’t live as a dog. Shouldn’t live as a dog. And he knew it wasn’t healthy to hide as dog from his problems. But it was so easy to shift, to change, leave the doubts and sorrows behind together with wand and robe. His first instinct when something bad happened was to change into a dog. Even in combat. But he couldn’t protect Harry as a dog. Not really. Harry needed his godfather, not his dog.

Feeling as if he was letting his godson, the son of his best friend, down, Sirius had shifted into his dog form before he realised it. And then he did not want to change back for quite some time. The big, black Padfoot stretched out on the thick carpet in Sirius’s room and took a nap.

*****

Draco Malfoy threw the Daily Prophet on the ground, then set fire to it with his wand. He didn’t care about the damage it would do to the tiles in his room. House elves could fix that. The sight of the pictures of Potter and his mudblood desperately but futilely trying to escape the encroaching flames helped his mood some. Only some, though. The real ones had escaped the fire, after all.

Draco scowled. This summer Potter had seen combat, real combat that made one’s blood run hot, while he was forbidden from experiencing the same. And the brave pureblood who had done so much to kill Potter during the tournament was now dead. The Aurors claimed it had been suicide, but Draco knew that that was just a cover-up. They had murdered the wizard, just as they had murdered so many fine purebloods during the war. And his father had forbidden him to strike back against such injustice! He should… Draco shuddered. No, he would not disobey his father. Not again, never again.

A wave with his wand scattered the ashes left over from the newspaper in the air. More work for the house elves. Those not attending his father’s guests right now - some old witch wearing hideous pink robes. His mother had made some disparaging remarks, before going to visit friends of hers. She did that a lot these days, Draco had noticed.

Draco’s thoughts returned to Potter, and the attack in Bulgaria. He had read all the articles, multiple times. Of course, the coward had fled instead of standing his ground, and had to be saved by pureblood wands and skill. Blood would tell, after all, even that of blood traitors like Sirius Black and Nymphadora Black-Tonks. It probably had been too much to hope that Potter would have been killed. But why had his mudblood managed to escape as well? Draco knew she would not have fetched a good price in the markets of Constantinople he had heard of, but the slavers could have killed her at least, and removed that stain on magic from Hogwarts. If Draco had been there, no one would have escaped!

But he had not been there. He was stuck at home instead. And he had not even a muggle to amuse himself with, not anymore. He sighed, then smiled, remembering. His father had shown him things. Terrible, fascinating, exciting things. Draco shivered. He had not really known his father until this summer. He had known the Head of the Malfoy family was a great wizard, of course, powerful and skilled, though that had been the limited view of a child, a coddled child. The child his mother loved and wanted him to remain.

But Draco was no child anymore, and accordingly, his father treated him as a man. It had been a painful lesson, but he had learned it. And accordingly, he had received a reward, fit for a man, not a child. The things he had done, the things he had learned, at his father’s side.

Draco smiled again.

*****

“And then Nymphadora held up a badge, and we realised that we just had attacked a French Auror!” Harry said, chuckling.

“The French call them ‘gendarmes magiques’, actually,” Hermione corrected him, then stuck out her tongue at Harry when he pouted at her.

His friends had changed, Ron Weasley thought. The three of them were in one of the rooms on the ground floor in Grimmauld Place, the one they had more or less taken over as theirs, and furnished with comfortable couches and seats. Ron had noticed that Harry and Hermione were sitting closer to each other, touching and exchanging glances far more often than before their trip to France and Bulgaria.

He had expected them to have changed, of course, after hearing of the attack on them in Bulgaria, but not like that. He had thought that Harry would be hovering around Hermione, almost in a paranoid manner, and annoying the witch a great deal with ham-fisted attempts to ‘keep her safe’. Or that Hermione would be frantic, following Harry, her wand ready to hex anyone that looked dangerous. There were hints of that, true. Neither was really relaxed. Both tensed up whenever the door opened. But despite that, they looked like … a couple.

“So, everyone is worried about getting thrown into prison, and the wizard’s still on the ground, out like a light.”

Harry continued his tale. Ron was only half-listening. Should he say something? Ask if they had finally slept with each other? No, he couldn’t ask that. But asking if they had finally realised they loved each other would sound too much like one of the wireless shows his mum and Ginny listened to. But he had to know.

“Are you a couple now?” When he saw their surprised expressions, he added: “I am not blind, you know. And I know my two best friends.” Who should have told him right away, of course. But then, both had been raised in the muggle world. Things were different there, he knew that. More prudish, less open.

“Well… “ Hermione hesitated.

“Yes, we are,” Harry stated and pulled Hermione into his lap. The girl yelped and the bottles she had been floating towards them stopped in the middle of the room for a moment. They did not drop though, and after a moment they were continuing towards them again.

Ron raised an eyebrow at the sight. Hermione had sounded surprised at Harry’s words, but she didn’t utter any denial or protest. Good enough in his opinion - he had feared the two would not settle their relationship issues before their sixth year. Things would have become rather difficult in that case, for everyone in the vicinity, including and especially himself, he thought. Now though they had a year to get comfortable. Hopefully comfortable enough to enjoy the Year of Exploration with him.

“Good.” He summoned a bottle of butterbeer for himself, flipped the cap off and raised it in a salute to his friends. “About time too.” He grinned, but then stopped when he saw Hermione’s expression.

“What do you mean, ‘about time’?” His best female friend glared at him.

Uh oh. Ron didn’t know what he had done, but he knew she was quite angry. He had to say something safe. “Well, you’ve been dancing around each other for a long time now.” It was much clearer in hindsight, of course.

His comment seemed to mollify Hermione and she settled down in Harry’s lap once more, smiling. Ron didn’t know what she had been angry about, or why she wasn’t anymore. He’d have to ask Harry later, once they were alone.

Of course that was when Luna arrived, with Ginny and Neville in tow.

*****

“Hermione!” With a cry, Luna threw herself at the young muggleborn witch.

Hermione Granger almost hexed the blonde before she recognised her, and before she could do anything else, the slim blonde was already sitting in her lap.

“Are you alright? Did you get hurt? The Daily Prophet didn’t mention you getting hurt, but we all know how unreliable that newspaper is.” Luna started babbling and running her wand - and hand - over Hermione in what seemed to be an attempt at finding hidden injuries. Harry, who had now the weight of two witches resting on his lap, made some strangled noise while Ginny giggled, Ron chuckled, and Neville looked slightly embarrassed.

Hermione tried to calm the blonde down before her friend tried to vanish her enchanted robes to check in detail. “I am OK, Luna. I wasn’t hurt at all.” At least not physically.

“Are you certain? You’re not just saying this, like Harry usually tries to, after a Quidditch match?” Luna stared at her with her eyes, already quite large, wide open, barely an inch away from her own.

“Yes, I am certain. I am not just saying this.” Hermione pulled her head back, almost hitting Harry in the face in her attempt to gain some distance, at least for her face.

Luna made a content noise and smiled widely, then hugged her. Hermione patted the blonde’s back reassuringly. The younger witch must have been as scared as after the last task. Harry made another groaning noise, but he would be fine. Like after a Quidditch match.

Ron summoned two bottles for his sister and Neville and invited them to sit down on the couch. Hermione waited a bit, but Luna didn’t seem to plan to move from her spot anytime soon. The muggleborn witch tried to gently push Luna off her lap, but the blonde had a surprisingly strong grip on her.

“Luna?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like a butterbeer as well? Or some milk? Pumpkin juice? Tea? Maybe a cola?” Maybe that would make her move.

“Yes!” Luna nodded vigorously.

“Which drink do you want?”

“What is a cola?”

“It’s a famous muggle softdrink.” Which, due to the sheer amount of sugar it contained, was almost never seen at the Grangers’. Hermione had a whole stash at Grimmauld Place though.

“What’s a softdrink?”

Hermione started to explain what softdrinks were. Too late she realised that Luna and cola might not be a good combination. But the lure of a new and exciting drink got the blonde off her lap and into a seat of her own. Harry shouldn’t have sounded quite as relieved though, in Hermione’s opinion - it wasn’t as if the two girls weighed that much.

Watching Luna try a cola for the first time was a fascinating and amusing experience. The blonde raised the glass, held it against the light, sniffed it, then ran her wand over it, as if she was handling an unknown potion. Hermione realised that Luna, like most witches, had no experience with muggle drinks at all. Suddenly, it was not that amusing anymore. “It’s safe, Luna. I drink it all the time. Ron’s been drinking it too.” Occasionally.

“Ron will drink and eat anything,” Ginny interjected with a smirk.

Ron just shrugged. “I have an open mind. You never know what you might be missing if you never try out new food.”

Hermione did not say that Wizarding Britain would be better if more wizards had an open mind for muggle food - and muggle culture. She wanted to, but if she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit that muggles were not exactly open-minded with regards to other cultures either.

Luna took a careful sip, then blinked. “It’s good!” She smiled, then downed the whole glass. “Ah… quite refreshing!” Then she turned her attention to Hermione and Harry again. “It’s good to see you two together!”

“Thank you, Luna.” Hermione wasn’t sure if Luna was talking about them being a couple - her sitting in Harry’s lap was a clue no one should have missed, but Luna was a special case - or if she meant to see them both safe and whole after Bulgaria. Ginny and Neville had noticed, of course, and had been whispering to each other.

“You’ll be swamped with applications.” Luna nodded encouragingly.

“Applications?”

“Yes.”

“Applications for what?” Hermione was pretty sure she didn’t want to know, but had to.

“Sex, of course. Since you are now officially Harry’s girlfriend, it would be terribly rude to proposition him without asking your blessing first.”

“We’re not even in fifth year yet!” Hermione exclaimed.

“They do that?” Harry sounded shocked.

“The early snorkack gets the tuna sandwich.” Luna nodded sagely. “Can I have another ‘cola’?”

“Of course. And speaking of snorkacks, did you find any tracks on your expedition?” Hermione told herself it was just Luna, and summoned another bottle.

“Ah, we did find what we believe were snorkack lairs, abandoned though. Our tuna sandwiches kept disappearing, so they might have been around, but hidden from view.” Fortunately, Luna seemed happy to talk about her own adventures over the summer instead of what sexual adventures Hermione and Harry could be looking forward to.

Unfortunately, as Hermione and everyone else found out soon, caffeine had a rather strong effect on Luna.

*****

Lord Voldemort, future ruler of Wizarding Britain and the wizard who had conquered death itself, carefully folded the latest issue of the Daily Prophet up before laying it on his desk. Combined with the news from Lucius, the articles proved that his ruse had worked - the search for the tournament saboteur had been called off, the case was considered closed. As he had planned. It was regrettable that Potter had survived the attack, of course. Getting killed by lowly bandits would have been a fitting end for the boy who had defied him. He briefly considered setting another trap for Potter, but decided against it. Should the boy be killed now, then people would assume a conspiracy, and take measures against it - no matter if there was one or not. It would be stupid if he started one investigation right after he had managed to stop another. Potter was not worth that trouble.

With the Ministry’s attentions deflected, he could work on furthering his plans with fewer obstacles in his way. Walden had his orders, as had Lucius, of course, but there were always ways to refine his plans. Maybe he should start on removing some of Lucius’s political enemies in and out of the Ministry. He’d have to be subtle, though. While it would be nice to both let his new recruits gain combat experience - they needed to be able to face Aurors at some point, after all - and remove some obstacles at the same time, the risk of getting exposed was too high.

At this point in time at least. The Ministry was not the most efficient institution, but it could be remarkably focused and quick to react when its employes were getting killed. Embarrassing and disgracing some of Dumbledore’s allies though, making room for purebloods with the right values, that would work. And there were other targets he could send his recruits against, to blood them and bloody them, without risking discovery in Britain.

The Dark Lord ran his hand over his head, through his thick hair. His new body still felt a bit off to him. He told himself that this would pass soon enough. He was growing more comfortable with each day, and his new appearance would serve him well, once he had defeated his enemies. Some of the decisions he had made in the last war had left him looking rather… impressive and intimidating, but not as attractive as he had been. And no one would recognise him - not until he revealed himself.

He considered the possibilities those changes offered him for a while. There were more of his old followers to visit, but that could wait. Time was on his side, after all.

*****

Hermione Granger resisted the urge to crumple her Hogwarts letter up. She hadn’t been chosen as a prefect. Professor McGonagall had told her she wouldn’t be, months ago. The reason given, that as Harry’s retainer, there would be a conflict of interest, made kind of sense. Harry being able to order her around would be a problem. Should he ever decide to do something against the rules, she’d not be able to stop him unless he let her. And yet she had hoped…

Of course, as a true muggleborn, she shouldn’t have expected to be chosen as prefect anyway. Hogwarts was an egalitarian school, but only to an extent. The teachers wouldn’t admit it, but a muggleborn disciplining Slytherins, or other stuck-up purebloods, was not too unlikely to cause more problems than she was solving.

She knew all that, but given her achievements, she still had harbored some irrational hope. Which the letter had dashed. It would be easier to accept the news too, if Susan Bones had not been chosen as the female Hufflepuff prefect for their year. Susan Bones, who currently was visiting Grimmauld Place, which was why Hermione and Harry were sitting in the salon, and not in their usual room or the kitchen. The pureblood witch was not yet a close enough friend to take her there. Only out of respect for her status as heir of Amelia Bones, of course. And not because Hermione thought the redhead was a bit too close to Harry already. Who was a prefect, to no one’s surprise. Not picking the winner of the Triwizard Tournament as prefect would have been an insult worthy of a blood feud in past times, and would have damaged Hogwarts’ reputation through the questions such a decision would have caused to be asked about the standards and motives of the teaching staff.

“And I am looking forward to patrolling with you. Some of the other prefects I’d rather not be alone with.” Susan smiled conspiratorially.

“And I’ll be with him as well, of course,” Hermione cut in. It was at most a small faux pas - they were in Harry’s home, after all, and they were friends.

“What? But you’re not…” Susan hesitated.

“I am his retainer. Guarding his back is part of my duties.” The young witch sent Harry a look that stopped what comment he might have been about to make. This was not negotiable in her opinion.

“But they caught the saboteur, he’s dead.” Susan frowned. Her aunt was the head of the DMLE after all.

“Harry’s got more enemies than that. Would you put it past Malfoy to use the opportunity to ambush him?” Hermione nodded at the redhead, who had just hinted at a similar suspicion.

“That’s true.” Susan didn’t sound like she was looking forward to mixed patrols anymore. “But no one would even think of having Harry patrol with Malfoy.”

“Snape would,” Hermione countered.

“I can handle Malfoy.” Harry sounded as if his pride was hurt.

Hermione didn’t contradict him. She did not tell him not to underestimate the pureblood idiot either. She’d do that in private later. Instead she acted like a proper retainer again and summoned a few more butterbeer bottles and floated them to Susan and Harry, opening them with her wand. No muggle softdrinks for Susan.

“Do you know who will be the female Gryffindor prefect?” Susan spoke up again after drinking half a bottle.

“I guess Lavender Brown or Parvati Patil,” Harry answered.

Hermione winced. Fay Dunbar would have been a much better choice, if not for her beliefs. A purist simply did not use enough magic to handle the duties of a prefect efficiently enough. To think that either of the gold digger duo would be able to discipline her… well, Harry would put a stop to that easy enough, and if not… she had ways to deal with that, should it become a problem. She’d not let those two twits hassle her. Not when she had a number of serious problems to deal with already.

Susan winced as well. She was familiar with the two witches, of course, and their antics before the Yule Ball. Their guest changed the topic to general gossip, but Hermione caught the redhead sneaking glances at her. She raised her eyebrows in response, but the other witch didn’t react, leaving her wondering what that was about. She may have overstepped her bounds as a retainer earlier, but just a bit, even by the stricter standards of the older generation Harry and Hermione usually followed.

“I can’t believe we’re in fifth year already. One year more, and the madness starts.” Susan grinned.

“Hermione’s madness usually starts at the end of every year,” Harry quipped.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. She did take exams seriously, which was a good thing. In response he raised his hands in a placating gesture and acted as if he was trying to fend off a spell. Susan giggled at that, and then at Hermione huffing at her Patron’s antics.

“Are you looking forward to sixth year?” Susan sounded like she was just making conversation, but she was glancing at Hermione again even though she was addressing Harry.

“I haven’t really thought about it, with everything else that has happened lately,” Harry deflected the question.

While Susan apologized for dredging up such terrible memories, Hermione stood up to summon another bottle, then sat down again, so close to Harry that her thigh touched his. Hopefully Susan got the message.

It wasn’t until Susan had left again that Hermione realised that Susan might have received a slightly different message than the muggleborn witch had wanted to send.

*****

Albus Dumbledore finished the last of his paperwork for the coming term and dropped it in the small basket for the Hogwarts house elves to pick up. Even with delegating - dumping - much of the paperwork on Minerva, it still took up too much of his time. Time he should be spending on finding a way to deal with Voldemort.

The Dark Lord had not been as careless as he had hoped, following the apparent success of his ruse. Albus had noticed Lucius being more active at the Ministry, meeting more people than just the Minister himself, but other than that, Voldemort’s suspected followers had not shown any unusual activity. There hadn’t been an incident like the attack on the World Cup last year either.

Severus didn’t know anything - he had not even been contacted by Voldemort yet. Albus was not certain what to think about that. Did Voldemort not trust Severus anymore? But if he did suspect him, wouldn’t he use the Potions Master to feed Albus fake information? Or had he contacted Severus already, but the young professor had kept it from Albus? Could he trust him still? The Head of House Slytherin had been showing more of a temper lately. He had been angrier too. It could just be stress, but…

Albus sighed, and petted Fawkes, who was picking at his bowls of lemon drops. The phoenix liked to play with them from time to time, and Albus liked to watch the mythic bird’s antics. He drew a line though when Fawkes tried to feed them to him and fended off his companion’s determined attempts to stuff him full of the sweets.

Feeling better, he focused on his problems again. He could trust Severus, for now. He knew just how much the young wizard loathed the Dark Lord. But with his spy not delivering information, or not yet, he had to find other ways to discover Voldemort’s plans - without alerting the Dark Lord that he was on to him. Getting the Order to keep an eye on the suspected Death Eaters, especially Lucius, would be easy. No one wanted Lucius to corrupt the Ministry further, and many of Albus’s friends, even Arthur Weasley, were well-connected enough to hold their own in office politics, which was what Lucius was meddling in. The Wizengamot was not in too much danger of getting subverted either - all of the members remembered the dark times of the Blood War, and a number of them had never believed the excuses Voldemort’s smarter followers had used after the Dark Lord’s defeat. But Albus lacked sources in the seedier parts of Wizarding Britain, where Voldemort would find eager recruits. Mundungus was well-connected, but he was but one wizard, and, as much as Albus hated to admit it, not as young nor as sober as he used to be. Moody knew some informers, as did Kingsley, but the DMLE’s lack of success in controlling the denizens of Knockturn Alley showed that those sources were not enough.

There was one wizard who had the kind of contacts Albus needed, or so he assumed, but the wizard in question had hated him for almost a hundred years. Albus was not looking forward to talking to his brother.

*****


	16. Past and Present Problems

**Chapter 16: Past and Present Problems**

The ‘Hog’s Head Inn’ in Hogsmeade didn’t look like much from the outside. Just another small, dark, wooden building with a shingled roof. A floating animated illusion of a hog’s head served as the sign, addressing each customer approaching the door with a friendly grunt. Supposedly, it roared at children coming too close, but Albus Dumbledore had never seen it do that. Then again, the head had never grunted friendly for him, either. Not since his brother had taken over the inn, after the war with Grindelwald.

Albus entered the inn, and the buzzing noise of the guests talking ceased at once while everyone present looked at him, then cast privacy spells. Once again he asked himself if that happened to everyone, or just to him. The inn was as well-maintained as ever. Aberforth’s spells had been perfected long ago, and the expansion charm more than doubled the available space for tables, and even a small stage. And yet it had a worn, old feeling. Albus wasn’t certain if it was the general attitude of the guests, or something Aberforth did with his spells. He didn’t dwell on it as he walked to the bar, passing half a dozen tables on the way.

As usual the inn had drawn a decent and very varied crowd. Albus recognized many of the guests as a former students of Hogwarts, and each of them made him feel as if he had failed them, somehow. He couldn’t help but think that all the boisterous, almost defiant carousing he had observed just hid the melancholy, or even desperation of wizards and witches who had stumbled in life, fallen, and never gotten up again, never realised their potential. Like his brother.

Mathilda Miller, a talented student with a penchant for charms, was wearing robes far more suitable for a 6th year than a witch who should have children of her own at Hogwarts by now. Her Patron had been killed in the last war, and there had been rumors of problems with his heir, but if she had come to him for help, instead of this…

Mathilda was sitting in the lap of Bertram Kettlestock, ten years her senior. Bertram had been a prodigy at Defense against the Dark Arts, and had gone on to become a fine Auror, but he had never recovered from losing his family in the war. Albus didn’t know what he was doing to earn a living now, but his name had come up with quite the number of shady incidents. He had never been arrested, but whether that meant he was still law-abiding, or too good to be caught, or had friends in the right places, Albus did not know.

Felix Flitterdorn, impeccably dressed in the latest robes, raised his glass in a sort of greeting to Albus. His parents had been members of the resistance against Grindelwald, and Albus had seen to their move to Britain personally. Their son had been a delight to teach, but when his relationship with some French witch had fallen apart, so had he. According to rumour he was living with two muggleborn mistresses half his age, and wasting the family fortune on Firewhiskey, Bavarian moonshine beer, and gambling.

He currently seemed to be losing gold to Lucrecia Browtuckle, who smirked at Albus while dropping Fire Cards in a skilled pattern, barely waiting for the cards to display their values before grabbing the pot. Contrary to many witches, she did not bother to hide her scars, but wore duelist robes with cut-outs that drew attention to them. She had been a fresh Auror during the war against Grindelwald, eager and skilled, but had never managed to adjust to peace afterwards. When Voldemort had raised his wand openly against Britain’s Ministry, she had returned as an experienced mercenary, to defend her home country, but the means she had employed to do so… Albus wondered if she was back in Britain to spend the gold she had earned abroad, or if she was looking for work. And if she was, which side she’d sign on with this time.

“Hello, sir, and welcome to the Hog’s Head Inn. What can I serve you?” As usual Aberforth greeted him as friendly and politely as he’d greet any stranger - to emphasize, no doubt, that he did not consider Albus family anymore.

Albus did not wince at the reception, having expected and experienced it before. “A butterbeer, and a private talk with you, please.”

“I’m working the bar. Why don’t you talk with some of your friends?” Aberforth sounded as politely distant as before, though Albus heard the edge in his voice, and the mocking - the Headmaster had no friends in this inn, and both knew it.

“It is important.” Albus ignored the stares of the other guests in the bar, probably expecting or hoping there would be a repeat of that evening in 1960, the last time Albus had pushed his brother. The Headmaster had paid for the repairs, but a year later, the exact amount of money had been returned to him by a rented owl, without a word.

Aberforth stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Cornelia, take over for me!” he bellowed towards a corner table, where a witch half his age and wearing low-cut robes that had been in fashion two years ago had already left her seat.

Again, the room had fallen silent, most were openly staring as the two old wizards took over the freshly vacated corner table. Some kept staring even after Albus and Aberforth both had cast privacy spells, maybe vainly hoping that they’d not have guarded against lip reading as well.

Aberforth summoned a butterbeer for Albus, and a Firewhiskey for himself. Neither of them touched their drinks, though.

“Things must be worse than one would think, for you to ask me for help.”

“Yes. I expect Wizarding Britain to be at war in the near future.” Albus didn’t like to spell it out, but his brother wouldn’t be moved by mere crimes. Not anymore.

Aberforth scoffed. “War? Grindelwald is safely locked away, and probably crippled by now from your wards.” When Albus flinched at the reminder of his greatest mistake, and greatest shame, his brother smiled viciously. He had never forgiven him for Gellert or Ariana. “And the Boy-Who-Lived vaporised Voldemort. So who would wage war? On Britain, that is, since you do not care much about the rest of the world.”

Albus ignored that barb and took a sip from his butterbeer, waiting. His brother was not getting any younger either, but if his mind was still sharp, and not dulled from the amount of liquor that must be drunk each evening in this inn, by Aberforth and patrons alike…

His brother stiffened, then narrowed his eyes. “One of them is back then. It is not Grindelwald. They would have noticed his escape, and he would have to build up forces again, on the continent, from nothing. That means Voldemort has returned. He has still followers left, scum some idiot foolishly left alive to prosper after their leader was killed. So he would have an easier time to prepare for war.”

Albus nodded - at the reasoning, not at the accusations. His brother’s mind had not suffered from his chosen lifestyle. In hindsight, he was correct. The Ministry should have prosecuted all of the Death Eaters, but at the time, after so much blood had been spilled, Albus had been too tired to ensure a purge would not degenerate into a general settling of accounts and feuds, so he had not intervened when the Ministry had shown a rather lenient hand - and one open to receive bribes. A mistake he had come to regret dearly since.

“Is that it? No speech about the the virtue of forgiving, and the dangers of revenge?” Aberforth’s tone had some mocking, but also some hurt in it. He too had lost a lot of friends in the last war.

“No. In hindsight, it is rather clear that I was wrong.” Albus was not quite certain the kind of revenge his brother had wanted would not have left their society a hollow shell, tainted with blood and hatred, but to start a debate now would only antagonize Aberforth, and he needed his help. And he quite liked the look of surprise on his brother’s face upon hearing his admission of a mistake.

“Things must be even worse than I thought, for you to admit you were wrong, and to me to boot.” Aberforth did recover quickly, of course - he had had decades to hone his anger at Albus.

“Indeed. Tom is craftier than I expected. More careful too. His defeat at the hands of a toddler must have cured him of some of his arrogance, at least.”

“And what are you expecting me to do?” Aberforth asked.

Albus was convinced his brother already knew what the Headmaster wanted, but wanted him to say it. A petty, but expected gesture. One he would oblige easily, given what was at stake. “He will be recruiting among the seedier elements of Wizarding Britain. Neither the Ministry, if they were not ignorant, nor myself have sufficient contacts in those circles.”

Aberforth snarled, the bitterness in his voice so thick, Albus could almost taste it: “But I, the black sheep of your family, have them? I am, after all, mingling with criminals and whores, instead of making something of my life. So, I should use the result of my failures for the Greater Good?”

The barb about the foolish plans Albus and Gellert had had, in their youth, hurt Albus as much now as it had when he and his brother had parted ways at Nuremberg. He would have liked to deny it, but Aberforth was not entirely wrong. “He already tried to kill children, multiple times. Tried, and succeeded, even.”

“Those are my friends, Albus. My family. You want me to send them into harm’s way, to risk their lives for the pampered brats at your school and their parents, who sneer at them whenever they dare to show their face in public!” Aberforth was getting louder, angrier.

“Are they your followers, to be ordered around by you as if pieces on a chessboard, or your friends, to decide for themselves what risk they will take?” Albus’s question made his brother hiss for a second.

“Don’t talk to me about pieces on a chessboard! Will they be discarded, their deeds and dead forgotten, like before? Or sacrificed when it would be politically inconvenient to save them?” Aberforth’s fist struck the table hard enough to make the bottle and glass on it tremble.

“Starting a war over one person is not merely ‘politically inconvenient’. Or would you want your country, your friends, to risk their lives in a war to save you?” Albus ground his teeth. His brother still could not see that sometimes, the price to do what was right was so high, it was not the right thing to do anymore.

“She was my responsibility, and you abandoned her! And then she died, just like Ariana!”

Albus did not remember standing up, nor seeing Aberforth stand up, but he found himself facing his brother, wands so close their tips were almost touching each other. For a long moment, neither moved nor said a word, then Aberforth sat down again, followed by Albus himself.

His brother downed his whiskey and slammed the glass on the table as smoke and fire poured out his mouth and ears. Albus took another sip of his beer. He wondered what their spells would have showed to the rest of the inn - some animated discussion, or merely two old men staring at each other? It was hard to tell, when two parties cast privacy spells on the same spot.

A minute passed in silence as tempers cooled.

“If my friends help in your war I want your word they will not be betrayed. I want them protected, like your pet thief. Rewarded in the end.” Aberforth had never liked Mundungus. Not since he had found out what the thief had done in his youth, before returning to Britain. And his brother had never forgiven Albus for protecting the wizard from his wrath.

“You have my word that I shall do what I can for them. Provided they do not abuse that. There are things I will not cover up.”

“If you can afford to protect your thief without losing sleep over it, then supporting my friends will not weigh on your conscience at all. They do not dabble in the kind of things men should be executed for.” He summoned a bottle and refilled his glass. “Manipulative old goat.”

Albus nodded. He had what he had come for. And at the expected cost. He wouldn’t have to mention that the secret about Tom’s return would have to be kept from Aberforth’s friends - for all his bluster and obvious care about his ‘family’, his brother too understood the needs for secrecy. Albus could not resist to answer that last barb though. “It wasn’t my experiment.” His brother had never forgiven him for covering up that particular mishap either. He had not been able to do anything right in the eyes of Aberforth, not since Ariana’s death. Even helping his brother just had aggravated him further.

Aberforth downed the glass again, then stood up, grinning. “We’ll need to make a show of it, of course, to make everyone believe you came here to make amends, and failed again, spectacularly. Purely to keep up appearances, of course. You have the budget for it if you’re waging a war.”

Albus sighed. He saw the need, but it would cost him quite a bit since his brother would not let him repair anything personally, instead insisting on hiring professionals. Something Aberforth was counting on, and enjoying. On the other hand, taking his brother down a peg would feel somewhat cathartic too. He raised his wand, ready to dispel the privacy spells. “Of course.”

They took it outside, and still managed to do enough damage to the inn for Albus’s vault to feel it.

*****

No matter how the world changed, the Hogwarts Express didn’t seem to change at all. From the color of the engine to the number and composition of the carriages, it looked exactly the same as it had when Harry Potter had first laid eyes on it, four years ago. Contrary to last year, his whole family was arriving at the same time - Harry and Hermione were escorted by Sirius and Remus. Nymphadora had wanted to come as well, but her mother had put her foot down and threatened to use a sticking charm if the metamorphmagus tried to ‘return to duty’ before she had been given a clean bill of health.

Harry and Hermione boarded the train, nodding at and greeting the students who had arrived early enough to secure a compartment comfortably close to the exits. Ron and the rest of the Weasleys were expected to arrive at the last minute, as usual, with Luna and Neville sometime in between. The Patils… Harry actually didn’t know when they would be arriving, usually, or if Padma would join them in their compartment. He doubted Hermione knew either, and asking if Ron and Padma were still a couple sounded a bit… inappropriate anyway.

Hermione picked a free compartment, and checked it out before Harry entered, acting as a proper retainer was expected to. As soon as the door closed though she sighed. “Did you see them? They already know. Gossip truly travels faster than light, even outside Hogwarts.”

“It was to be expected. At least Luna’s father didn’t write an article about us.”

“Yet.” Hermione stored their trunks overhead with a quick spell and released Crookshanks from his carrier. The orange menace promptly tried to shred Harry’s robe or maul his leg, but not even a half-kneazle’s claws were a match for Hermione’s protection charms. His love, of course, thought the cat was just trying to be friendly and fed it a treat as a reward.

“Yes, yet.” Harry pulled his leg back and glared at Crookshanks. “Anyway, it’s not as if I want to hide our relationship.” He looked at Hermione. She was wearing her school robes, tailored and customized of course, with her own spells, but he imagined her in quite another garment. A camisole, and some lacy… His thoughts were interrupted when his friend plopped herself down in his lap. “Ooof.”

Hermione patted his cheek. “You didn’t complain yesterday. Or any day.” The pats became caresses, and her other hand started to move behind his head, sinking into his hair.

His own arms held her, and he dipped her just a bit, before their lips touched. His first kiss would always be something special, but they had improved on those first attempts, with lots of practise over the summer. When they broke up, both teenagers were flushed, and breathing heavily. For a moment Harry was tempted to go further. The door was sealed, no one would disturb them… he shook the thoughts off. “So, you think you’ll be able to show us a movie at Hogwarts?”

Hermione smiled widely. “Oh, yes. Preliminary testing showed the calculators worked at Grimmauld Place, but I have not been able to see if the deteriorate with prolonged use. Either way, I should be able to have a VCR and a TV last at least long enough for a decent movie night.”

“Should I order a replacement from Sirius already?”

“Prat!” Hermione pouted. “I’ll have to create one for Nymphadora anyway, as soon as it is proven to work. I promised.”

Harry nodded. “It’ll save your parents’ house.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me! The worst thing is that after hearing about Bulgaria, my parents now feel guilty about throwing her out of the house that one evening. If I don’t get this thing working, I’ll find my room taken over and filled with all the compact discs and video tapes Sirus can buy for his cousin once we return for Christmas.”

“Don’t forget the comics and books.” Harry added, helpfully.

“Hmph. Those she can use at her home, at least. I still say she’s been milking this for far more than it’s worth.”

“She almost died for us.”

“I know. And I am grateful. But she’s obviously feeling much better now, and someone had a van’s worth of records and tapes delivered to my parents while a cousin of us was visiting. They blamed it on me. Now my whole family - well, that side of it - thinks that I’ve broken under pressure and have become a punk girl, hoarding trash movies and music, and that my parents are enabling me!”

“That’s Sirius’s fault. He went and bought ‘one of everything you have’ in that store.”

“And you let him!”

Harry grinned ruefully. It had been amusing, and he had used the opportunity to grab a few nice records for himself. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of using the opportunity to expand your library when you were buying books for Nymphadora.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s a great idea! We can take one of the unused rooms, and turn it into a muggle library! A few expansion charms, and we can have a decent collection there!”

“And you complain about being mistaken for a manic collector!”

Hermione glared at him. “Books are not the same thing! A woman’s worth can be measured by the size of her library!”

“I am pretty certain you just made that up.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not true!” Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, giggling, talking took a backseat to further training in kissing and more, until the spell on their door signalled that someone wanted to enter.

*****

Pansy Parkinson should have been happy to return to Hogwarts. This year’s summer vacation hadn’t been as much fun as the ones before. Her father had been curt, even annoyed most of the time. Fortunately, her mother had taken up the slack and not only arranged a three weeks long visit to the summer house at the coast, but also bought her the latest robes for school. Granger would eat her dinky robes with those pitiful self-cast comfort spells overlaid on all the protection charms she needed just to survive at school once the mudblood realised what comfort and options her new robe offered. With a grin, she had her robe change looks again, switching from a school robe - with a Slytherin crest, of course, and her shiny new prefect badge - to a much racier, much more revealing robe in a shimmering, semi-opaque dark green. That would be perfect to show off in the Slytherin common room, where one was not required to wear school robes.

She would be happy, if not for Draco Malfoy. If she had thought her vacation had been a bit less than perfect, Draco’s must have been… something else. He seemed to be wanting to bitch and boast about it at the same time, and yet never did either, interrupting himself after a few words, or trailing off. And the smile she saw, sometimes, when he was looking at nothing in particular… she didn’t like to admit it, but it scared her. Maybe she should ditch the boy sooner than planned?

“Do you know where Potter’s compartment is? I’d like to see how having to be saved by true purebloods affected that stain on our school’s honour. And congratulate Potter for having at least the sense to shag his mudblood so she learns what awaits her in 6th year and won’t embarrass him,” Draco said, with both arrogance and condescension.

“I don’t know. But we have the meeting of the prefects to attend to in a few minutes, so I don’t think you should visit his compartment right now.” Besides, they’d soon see Potter at the prefect meeting in the train. It wasn’t as if there was an alternative to Potter for his year’s Gryffindor prefect position.

“That is true. And I have a duty as a prefect too. Someone has to uphold the standards of our school, after all. Uphold and improve.”

“Of course, Draco. Who else would know better about standards than yourself?” Pansy cooed, then let him offer her his arm for the walk to the prefect’s compartment. Suddenly, she saw that evil smile on his face again, and shivered. She was almost hoping Draco would provoke an incident in the meeting, and end up in the infirmary as a result.

*****

No true muggleborn was at the sorting this year either. Hermione Granger wasn’t certain what to make of that - it was not yet statistically significant, but she felt a bit more alone, despite her friends surrounding her and Harry. The sacrifice of wine to the gods - Janus, Hecate and Apollo - made her forget about that though, since it left her, as it did every year, breathless and with her skin tingling and her hair almost floating. Once again she wondered why she and a few others, including Harry, seemed to be more affected than most of the students. And once again she shied away from thinking about, much less researching the matter. She told herself she had more important things to worry about - Voldemort, her runic experiments, and her relationship to Harry. But on some level she didn’t want to know.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was easy for her to be distracted from such thoughts anyway, since her and Harry were the talk of the school. While the two had spent most of the train trip but for Harry’s patrol as prefect in their compartment, with just their close friends, there was no privacy to be had in the Great Hall, not without advanced spells, which she had not yet learned. It felt as if everyone was staring at them, staff included. And whispering about them. Speculating or gossiping, no doubt. Or spreading nasty rumors about them, Hermione added mentally, when she saw Parkinson look at her. She met the Slytherin’s eyes, smirking, and received a sneer in return. Malfoy, seated next to the other witch and glaring at Harry, must be rubbing off on Parkinson. If looks could kill, then Harry would have died from Draco’s, or Snape’s, alone. The Potions Master seemed to be in a really bad mood, even for him.

Ginny, Neville and even Ron were doing their part to avoid mentioning what everyone else was talking about by talking about unrelated topics. Mostly Quidditch, of course. Even Neville seemed to prefer to talk about that bloody game rather than about the upcoming lessons and their O.W.L.s!

When the meal ended Hermione followed Harry, who was gathering the new first years from their House. She felt slightly nostalgic - had she looked as awed as those children, four years ago? She’d like to think so, but she had probably been lecturing her year mates about ‘Hogwarts: A History’ instead of staring in wonder at the marvels of a magical school.

“Hermione? What are you doing here?” Parvati sounded both curious - she was an incurable gossip - and annoyed. ‘You’re not a prefect, I am!’ remained unsaid, but was clearly implied by the way she rubbed her shiny new badge.

“As custom dictates, I am simply standing ready to serve my Patron, should he require my assistance in carrying out his duties,” Hermione answered, smiling politely. Of course the duties a Patron would have help from their retainer with usually were those of a more important position than those of a prefect at Hogwarts.

To her credit, Parvati did not challenge Hermione’s statement, but her pout made it clear that she didn’t like it. Hermione almost shook her head - had the other witch really expected that she could use the patrols and other duties shared with Harry to somehow win his heart?

Harry had gathered all of the first years in the meantime, and was leading them towards the Gryffindor tower, explaining the route on the way, and answering question after question. He was good with children, Hermione realised, and smiled wistfully for a moment while she and Parvati brought up the rear of the small group.

“Will you join us on patrols too?” Parvati kept her voice neutral, but Hermione imagined she had to make an effort.

“I expect so, yes.”

“Why? You are not a prefect, you don’t have to do that.”

Hermione glanced over at her yearmate. “With the events of last year, and this summer, I feel it would be best to remain cautious. Three wands are better than two wands, should someone attempt to ambush a patrol.”

“Oh.” That set Parvati thinking. “But they caught the assassin!”

“He could have hired someone to attack at Hogwarts before he died, like he hired those bandits to attack in Bulgaria.” Hermione didn’t sound too condescending, or so she hoped. To her surprise, Parvati shut up after that. But only until they were back in the girls’ dorms - there she and all the other girls from Hermione’s year wanted to know all about her relationship with Harry. Hermione was quite proud of her self-control when she did restrain herself from hexing the lot of them.

*****

“Should we cast a shield?” Ron sounded worried.

“If it doesn’t work it’ll sizzle and burn, it won’t explode. Calculators are not bombs,” Harry Potter tried to assure his friend. Not even calculators that had been taken apart, had runes engraved on every surface, inlaid in silver, and then cobbled together again, would explode like a bomb. He hoped so at least.

“And what about Hermione?”

“She won’t explode either. I think.”

Hermione had been a bit stressed lately, Harry knew. It wasn’t just the rumors about what she might have done to ‘snare’ Harry. Or what they were doing now. Or Snape making them brew contraception potions ‘since some students seem intent on abusing their power over others’. Granted, it had been Hermione who had held Harry back from doing something he’d not regret at all in response to that insinuation, but the witch had been incensed as well. Fortunately, the Headmaster had sorted that out and set the Potions Master straight. The man had not taken that well though, and was now all but abusing his students with constant acidic remarks and point deductions at the slightest mistakes. Even the Slytherins, which had shocked them.

“It’s not that time of the month then?”

Harry didn’t deign that with an answer. “Shh. She’s finishing her preparations now.”

All three were in the room they had taken over during the Triwizard Tournament. So far, no one had reclaimed it, so there was no reason not to continue using it. It wasn’t as if space was at a premium in Hogwarts, anyway, with expansion charms available.

Hermione sent them a glare, then took a deep breath, reached out, and pressed a button on the calculator. Harry could see her flinch, even though nothing happened. She tapped a few buttons, and a smile blossomed on her face.

“It works!” She turned to them, beaming. “It works! The calculator works!” She jumped into Harry’s arms with a jubilant yell.

“You did it!” Harry smiled and turned around with her in his arms, then set her down and looked at the calculator. Right then they heard a crackling sound and saw a small cloud of smoke rise from the calculator.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Ron asked, looking at them.

Harry had to struggle to keep his girlfriend from hexing their best friend, who maintained that he had done nothing wrong.

Hermione calmed down, and then took the ruined calculator apart again, to find out what had gone wrong, this time, muttering arithmantic equations and tidbits of runework Harry recognized.

“Probably a question of power. The wards at Hogwarts are far stronger than at Grimmauld Place.” He was no slouch at Arithmancy or Runes either, if not as much of a prodigy as Hermione.

“I accounted for the power differences.” Hermione sounded exasperated. “I’ll have to double the scheme, and maybe try to tie it into the wards to power the array.”

“You’d need the Headmaster’s permission for that. Only he can affect the wards.” Harry pointed out. Then he saw his girlfriend’s eyes widen.

“That’s it! I am trying to counter-ward the calculator without permission! The wards would be fighting that!” Hermione hugged him, hard, then kissed him. “I know what to do now!”

And with that, Harry’s best friend was happily lost to the world, and to him, scribbling furiously in her notebook and muttering about involving the Headmaster. It was a sight that warmed his heart, after all they had gone through.

Ron summoned a can of cola for Harry and a butterbeer for himself. “I still don’t get why she was not sorted into Ravenclaw. She’s far worse than Padma when she gets like that.”

Harry opened the can, took a sip, and then answered. “That’s because she’s even braver than she is smart.” He was rewarded with a beaming smile from his love, not as lost in her work as he had thought then, before Hermione focused on her work again.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick was bored before he and his partner, Bertha Limmington, even had reached the door of their suspect. “Why are we doing this? It’s just graft, which everyone at the Ministry does once they are in a position to do so. We should be investigating the latest assaults in Knockturn Alley.” Or anything else that actually mattered.

“We’ve got a warrant for questioning, and we’ll serve it.” His partner, as always, was a stick in the mud.

“It won’t stick anyway. Those kind of charges never do. Too many friends in high places.” Last he heard, Berty Pickwick was close enough to Albus Dumbledore to call a favor in. Pointless to bother the man.

“Orders are orders.”

With another sigh, Kenneth tapped his wand against the door of Pickwick’s house. He didn’t order him to open, it was just a warrant for questioning.

The door opened, revealing an old wizard with pinch-nez glasses that had gone out of style decades ago.

“Mister Pickwick?”

“Yes?”

“I am Auror Fenbrick, this is Auror Limmington. We’re here to ask you a few questions about a recent discrepancy in your department’s budget.” Judging by how much the eyes of the man widened, he was as surprised of the reason for their presence as Kenneth had been when he had gotten the warrant to serve. The wizard probably had misjudged the amount of graft that would be tolerated. Or he had made the wrong kind of enemy in the office.

And of course, Kenneth thought, ten minutes later, he was claiming to be innocent. They always did.

*****

In Viktor Krum’s opinion, Nymphadora Black-Tonks had fully recovered from the wounds she had taken in defense of his home. She certainly was as energetic, or even more so, as she had been upon arriving in Bulgaria. Quite enthusiastic too. If not for his extensive training as a soon to be professional Quidditch Player, he was certain his arm would be hurting by now, from the way she was using it to pull him this way and that each time she spotted something else she wanted to show him in muggle London.

So far they had visited ‘the tube’, a sort of train buried beneath the earth, probably with the help of goblins, and a tailor shop with rather bland, if not drab clothes in it. He thought they were some kind of uniforms, since there were dozens of copies of each articles, but Nymphadora had assured him that everyone could wear them, provided they had the right figure. Which he apparently did, even though both shirt and pants felt a tad tight. He did look good in them though, and he fit in with the British muggles. And that was important, since they would be visiting a muggle restaurant, a muggle cinema - whatever that was - and a muggle club, and Viktor was not keen on drawing attention, not when he could finally walk the streets without getting swarmed by fans. Not that they did not draw attention anyway, since Nymphadora was wearing equally tight, but also ripped clothes, which had to be quite daring for muggle fashion.

“Come on! There’s the restaurant!” The witch was again pulling him off the sidewalk, straight towards a muggle restaurant. It did look inviting, with cheerful, bright colors, and a big yellow ‘M’ sign. And while there were no animated menus showing the food it offered, the muggles made do with big pictures of the sandwiches. Contrary to his expectations, they did not have to wait for their food either, but got it right after ordering. Almost like in a wizard pub. Viktor didn’t see any dishes or cutlery though - was he supposed to eat with his hands? A few glances confirmed that yes, he was supposed to. That must be a British muggle thing. And the pictures didn’t quite match the food either - Viktor was sure his ‘burger’ was not supposed to look that squished together.

“You’re the first wizard I am on a date with who has not yet asked me to demonstrate my talents.”

Viktor looked up from his half-eaten ‘Big Mac’. Nymphadora was staring at him, sucking on the straw stuck in her ‘milkshake’. The sight briefly distracted him. “You are the second witch I met who has not asked me about Quidditch yet.”

The young Auror smiled, and Viktor nodded, before taking another, careful bite from his ‘burger’. It was exotic, no doubt. Not inedible, though it had to be an acquired taste.

“The first was Hermione, right?”

Viktor nodded again.

“She doesn’t like Quidditch.”

“But you do.”

“Yes, I do. Like every normal witch.”

Viktor nodded again while finishing his meal. Both of them understood what they were saying. In that, at least. “What is this ‘movie’ you want to show me?”

Nymphadora started to explain what a cinema did, straying into other areas of muggle culture ever so often, and even mentioned that Hermione was trying to make a cinema for wizards. Viktor listened, but his attention was more on the witch than her words. He liked what he saw. He had known she was brave, and skilled. Anyone seeing her fight would have known that. But she was more. Passionate as well as mischievous. Vulnerable, or at least sensitive about her special talent, even he had noticed that. Certainly neither meek nor boring. And not impressed by his fame. In short, interesting. He hoped she found him interesting too. At least both of them had one thing in common - they knew what it meant to be reduced to one thing in the eyes of the rest of the world, no matter what other achievements they had earned.

*****

“Is this seat taken?”

“Susan?” Hermione Granger looked up from the ‘Treatise of Wards, Vol. 2’ she had been studying while Harry was training with the rest of the Quidditch Team. The stands at the pitch were not the best place to read, but a few spells made it comfortable enough. And her presence should both support Harry, and keep him from doing something spectacularly stupid during training. She wasn’t the only one in the stands either, a number of Gryffindors were present and actually watching the game. She was surprised Susan showed up though - usually, members of the other houses didn’t show up during trainings, or they might be suspected of spying for their team. The Hufflepuffs had a reputation of valuing fair play, unlike the Slytherins, but some of the fans of the stupid game were quite fanatical. “Of course not, please have a seat.”

Susan sat down next to her, her robe’s spells automatically smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric. A basic spell, and one one got far too quickly used to, as Hermione’s muggle dresses could attest to. The muggleborn witch also noted how the robe clung to the redhead’s body and outlined her curves, and made notes to adjust her own spells accordingly. She had to keep up, after all. From the grin on Susan’s face, the other witch had noticed, so Hermione grinned back. There was no shame in copying professional spells as a student.

Susan watched Harry do a few loops and rolls, chasing a practice snitch. “He’s quite the sight on his broom.”

“That he is.” Hermione agreed. She would have agreed more enthusiastically if Harry had not been doing the rolls and loops far too close to the empty stands on the other side of the pitch. But she’d not criticize Harry in front of others, especially not Susan. Even if she wanted to.

“Mh.” Susan had the bright and slightly vacant smile of a Quidditch fan as she watched. Or, Hermione realised with a chilling feeling, the kind of smile a girl lusting after the Boy-Who-Lived would wear. She must have misunderstood the message Hermione had been sending when the redhead had visited Grimmauld Place. So much for thinking Susan was a safe date for Harry!

Susan’s hand on her knee interrupted her thoughts. The Hufflepuff prefect was beaming at her. “Don’t worry, Hermione, I understand.”

Hermione realised her thoughts and fears must have shown on her face. But if Susan understood… she felt a pang of pity for the other girl. To be in love with Harry, but holding herself back from acting on it, that was not a good place to be in. She knew that from experience.

The muggleborn witch nodded, still thinking of something appropriately understanding to say, when Susan squeezed her knee. “You make a beautiful couple. Both of you are very attractive. It would be a shame to neglect either of you for the other in sixth year.”

With that the Hufflepuff stood up and left the pitch while Hermione realised that the other witch definitely had misunderstood her message.

“Hermione?” She hadn’t noticed Harry flying over on his broom, summoning a bottle of water from her bag. “You look distracted.”

She turned to him right when he was opening the bottle and starting to drink and blurted out: “I’ve just received a proposal for a threesome.”

It was a testament to Harry’s skill as a flyer that he was never in danger of falling off his broom during the minute he spent coughing up all the water that had accidentally gone down his windpipe upon hearing that.

*****

Felix Flitterdorn thought the ‘pub’ he was currently gambling in could only be improved with a Blasting Curse or two, or some Fiendfyre. He wasn’t exactly a paragon of moral fortitude, but as low as his standards were, he still had some, contrary to most of the people around him. Monsters in human form, the lot of them. If Melissa and Mary were aware of where he was ‘gone for a drink’, they’d hex him for sure, even if he could explain to them why he was wasting gold in such a place.

But Aberforth had asked him to keep an eye and ear out for a possible rabble-rouser recruiting wands in Knockturn Alley, and he owed the old wizard too much not to help - without him, neither of his two loves would be still alive, he was certain of that. And he wouldn’t have met them either. Felix didn’t know what kind of plot he was supposed to uncover, but he knew it was important. Otherwise, Aberforth would not be helping his brother, the mighty Albus Dumbledore.

Oh, their performance might have fooled outsiders, but anyone who knew both of them well - such as Felix - had seen through the act right away. Some of his friends might balk at helping Albus Dumbledore, but Felix was not among them. His family owed the Headmaster too. And while Felix was many things - a scoundrel, a rake, a gambler and a drinker - he was not one to shirk from paying back his debts, in gold or deed.

He laid down his latest hand and while everyone was waiting for the cards to settle on their values he looked around, acting as if he was checking out the girls and boys available. He was looking for wands for hire. He didn’t recognize any from the time he had been active in the Mediterranean, but then, that had been 30 years ago, and not many wizards or witches grew old if they stayed in that kind of business. He did recognize the type of low-lives someone looking to rouse rabble would hire: overconfident, stupid, and not good enough to become an Auror, Hit-Wizard or professional duelist. Just like him, before he had met Joelle.

Even after 25 years, he felt the pain of her loss, still saw her getting hit with that curse, off the Croatian coast. Neither Melissa nor Mary ever asked about her, not even when he woke up shouting her name. Fortunately, his hand turned out to be so awful, his pained expression was not out of place.

By the time he had lost two more hands and had won a third, he had spotted a familiar wizard in the pub, mingling with the hopeful wands for hire. Walden Macnair, the executioner of the Ministry. He could be looking for some help with a particularly nasty beast, of course - he was sometimes hired to deal with creatures outside of the Ministry’s jurisdiction, and not many of the experienced creature hunters were fond of the man. Felix would mention it to Aberforth anyway.

The wizard seated across from him chuckled at seeing his next hand and grabbed the gold he had just won before waving at a witch who looked young enough to be still at Hogwarts. She either wasn’t, or she was an immigrant - the Headmaster was quite protective of his students - but either way, Felix once again felt a few curses would greatly improve the ambience. He’d have to settle for emptying the wizard’s purse though, if he did not want to sabotage his task.

With a nasty grin of his own, Felix started to play seriously.

*****

“What did you say?” Remus’s question was loud enough to qualify as a shout, in Sirius Black’s opinion.

He frowned. His best - and only - friend was far too loud. Especially after a night of heavy drinking. “I said that a few of Fleur’s cousins are coming for a visit: Chantal, Eugénie, Laure and whatshername, Valérie.”

“Merlin’s Balls! What did you do in France?” Remus shook his head in what Sirius thought was a jealous daze.

“Well, as you know, I am quite limber, and I’ve got an exceptional…”

“That was a rhetorical question, Sirius,” Remus growled, rudely cutting him off. Yes, definitely jealous.

“Ah, OK. Anyway, I wanted to tell you and Harry and Hermione, so you’re not surprised when you visit.”

“It’s quite surprising that you’re thinking ahead. I’d have expected you to inform us right when we interrupt an orgy.”

“Well, it would have been amusing if you stumbled on that, but with the ongoing troubles, I’d rather not have a guest hexed by mistake.”

Hospitality was to be taken seriously, after all. It would have been a good prank though, Sirius thought, to have the kids arrive in the middle of something. Harry and his girl were still far too uptight, far too serious, and not Sirius enough. All Remus’s bad influence, of course. Well, someone had to be responsible for it, and it wasn’t Sirius, nor Kreacher, and not Nymphadora either. And not the Grangers. Everyone knew muggles were prudes, so they were prudes, but as teenagers, neither Harry nor Hermione would be listening to them. So it had to be Remus. Who should know as well that life was far too short to waste time when one could be shagging instead. James and Lily had died far too young, and they had taken too long to get together as well.

“Isn’t Krum still a guest as well?” Remus asked.

Everyone else called him ‘Viktor’, but Remus kept calling him ‘Krum’, and in a tone similar to how he spoke of Snape. Sirius hadn’t asked why Remus didn’t like the Quidditch Player, probably something about the Bulgarian’s attitudes towards werewolves, which were about as appreciated or tolerated as visits from the Ottoman Empire.

“Yes. I told him he can stay as long as he likes, and he likes it in London, probably will be staying until his new team’s season starts.” Sirius liked Viktor. He was too serious too, but he could drink, could fly, and made his cousin smile.

“A Quidditch star, and four Veela.”

“Sounds scandalous, yes? But I am sure Nymphadora can handle them, should they make moves on her wizard.” And it would be funny too. Judging by how Remus frowned, he didn’t think it would be amusing. “Anyway, I am off to inform Harry. And Hermione.”

A big black dog ran from Remus’s quarters towards the Gryffindor dorms. It was easier to travel like this, Padfoot knew, since the memories it brought would be happier, simpler, than if Sirius had walked. Exploring the Forbidden Forest, running away from Filch, tackling a werewolf, chasing a rat…

The sight of his godson, and his wide-eyed surprise at being tackled and licked by Padfoot, drove the darker thoughts away.

*****

Ron Weasley sighed and rubbed his temples. The last Occlumency lesson Remus - Professor Lupin at Hogwarts - had given them had left him with a headache. He hadn’t wanted to bother Matron Pomfrey for a remedy, it was an hour until curfew already, and he didn’t trust the small white muggle drugs Hermione had offered. Who knew what they would do to him, he had read the warnings about drugs in the magazines Hermione had brought with her! So he had to suffer some. He knew it’d pass soon enough anyway.

“Are you OK?” Padma, seated next to him on the bench in the Great Hall, looked at him, concerned. He had thought she was focusing on her book and was pleased that she had noticed.

“Just a bit of a headache. Too much studying.” He grinned. It was true, in a way, even though she’d assume he was joking.

Padma snorted at his comment, as expected, and returned her attention to her book. She kept leaning on him though. Ron liked those moments. Close contact, comfortable silence, and no need to talk about anything. It wasn’t that he disliked talking, but he didn’t like talking all the time. One ended up saying the wrong thing, sooner or later, that way.

Unlike her sister, Padma was content reading a book while being with him. Not always, of course, but often enough for Ron to enjoy the opportunity to let his thoughts wander. Did Harry feel the same when Hermione was lost in one of her books? Probably. He loved the muggleborn witch - not like that though - but she could talk as much as Parvati and Lavender together, if she wanted to. And she was stubborn too.

Like today, before the Occlumency lesson. Hermione had told him and Harry that the French Veela used magical tattoos to track each other in case they were kidnapped. She had thought that would be a good idea for them and their friends too. Merlin! She had not even noticed how close that was to the Dark Marks on the arms of the Death Eaters, or to the slave marks the Ottomans used, until he had pointed it out. Even then she had argued it would be different - meaning, ‘improved’ - until Harry had put his foot down. And Ron was quite certain Hermione had not given up, but was doing more research. He shuddered - he just knew mum would flay him if he got a tattoo. They had gotten remarkably unpopular in Britain after the last war. Not even Bill the rebel had dared to get one in Egypt.

He looked at Padma, who was twisting a long strand of her black hair around a finger while she was reading. It was adorable, but sometimes he asked himself if he was lo... liking Padma because she was similar to Hermione in many aspects.

He didn’t know the answer. But he hadn’t known if Padma was just with him because it would irk her sister either, and now, after months at Hogwarts and after the separation during their summer vacation, he was pretty certain she liked him. And even so - he was young, he’d enjoy that he was with the pretty witch and would not let worry about such things poison what he had with her.

*****

Lord Voldemort was studying the wizards Macnair had pointed out to him. His Death Eater was looking for wands for hire in Knockturn Alley, thugs willing to cast and kill for gold, no questions asked. Useful curse fodder, but some of them might have potential for more. Might become faithful followers. But they had to be tested.

A number of them were being hired to deal with competition for businesses in Knockturn Alley. Competition by mudbloods and their Patrons, who had invested in their shops. The ruffians would think they were hired by someone working for those businesses, and he’d build a reputation as a broker. Or rather, Finnegan Greenbrand, the wizard whose form he was wearing thanks to Polyjuice would gain that reputation. The wizard was in the cellar of his safe house, under the effect of Draught of Living Death, and would provide all the hairs Voldemort would ever need to impersonate him. Barty Crouch Jr., his most loyal and best follower had been very apt at hiding his tracks, and Voldemort was following his example. Not only would no one connect those ruffians to his actual face, but anyone, Macnair or even Lucius, could use Polyjuice and appear as Greenbrand as needed. And if the thugs messed up and Aurors got involved… well, Greenbrand would serve as a scapegoat, and no one would connect him to Voldemort. And those who distinguished themselves he would recruit into his cadre.

It would take a lot to make him bring Lucius in on this though, the wizard’s touch for politics was too useful to be wasted on recruiting curse fodder. The way he had cultivated Umbridge showed that. That witch, stuck in a dead-end job in the Ministry, despite her infatuation with Fudge - or maybe because of it - was a distinctively unpleasant individual even if she had the right attitude towards mudbloods. But her detailed knowledge of the inner workings of the bureaucracy, and of prominent employes, had already proven to be very useful. Knowing how to manipulate paperwork and records was a weapon more powerful than curses, if used correctly. Dumbledore would have to either save his friends and allies from scandal and even prison, and lose influence with others by doing it, or cut them loose and save his reputation, but lose the loyalty of others who would have reasons to fear sharing such a fate.

Lucius’s work in undermining Dumbledore’s influence at the Ministry was so promising, Voldemort was almost willing to forgive him his cowardice after his defeat. Almost, but not quite. Everyone who had offended him would be paying for it, one way or the other.

The Dark Lord glanced at the Daily Prophet. Another article about Lockhart. Apparently the author was about to receive the compensation for the basilisk corpse the Ministry had confiscated years ago. Voldemort sneered. Discovering the basilisk had been the most important moment of his time at Hogwarts. It had been the key to his immortality, the proof of his heritage and destiny. The oldest link to his ancestor. And the fools were rewarding its murderer? Its murderers, actually - Potter and his blood traitor friend would be receiving their share of the blood money as well. It was an insult to his family that could not be allowed to stand.

He rubbed his chin, calming down. Maybe he had a better target to test promising recruits than a few mudblood store owners. Lockhart had made enemies, as anyone who stood out from the rabble was fated to do. On the other hand, Lockhart, who had killed his basilisk, should be killed in a way that everyone realised why he had died.

His revenge could wait, he decided. He had more important tasks to focus on. His most loyal followers, especially his dear Bellatrix, were still languishing in Azkaban, tortured by the Dementors. He couldn’t do anything about that though, not yet, other than giving them hope of deliverance through the marks that bound them to him. And there remained that prophecy, which had spelled doom for him once already. It would be moot, of course, once Potter was dead.

He told himself again that he couldn't have the boy killed right then, or it would upset his plans. But the same was true for an attempt to learn the full prophecy - if it was discovered, it might alert his old foe about his return.

He pushed thoughts of revenge away. He had other plans to make.

*****


	17. Movie Night at Hogwarts

**Chapter 17: Movie Night at Hogwarts**

Hermione Granger ran her wand over her robes one last time before walking up to the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s Office in Hogwarts, even though her enchantments already would have removed any specks of dust and wrinkles. She had to make certain that she looked impeccable since she was about to ask a very big favor of Dumbledore. Not as big as when she had wanted Harry to become her Patron, but unlike that time, tradition and custom and magic itself was not on her side this time. In fact, tradition and custom might be against what she was asking for - or at least against the results of what she planned to do. Magic didn’t care.

“Mars bars.”

The stone guardian moved aside with a slightly scraping sound, and she idly wondered if that was by design, to add some flair to entering, or a sign of a spell in need of retuning. She didn’t think the Headmaster would be sloppy when it came to spells protecting his office, so it was probably by design. The actual door to the office opened before she reached it.

The office hadn’t changed since her last visit. There were still the books she longed to read, the intriguing knick-knacks filling the shelves, and the friendly phoenix greeting her. Dumbledore himself was sitting behind his desk, signing some parchment before putting it into a basket, from where it promptly vanished.

“Please have a seat, Miss Granger.” He gestured and a comfortable chair appeared in front of his desk.

“Thank you, sir.” Hermione sat down, her enchantments automatically smoothing out her robe.

“You have asked to see me about ‘a matter of magical experimentation’. An intriguing topic for many of us more academically minded, especially coming from such a brilliant student as yourself.”

Hermione blushed at the compliment, but tried to keep her composure. It wouldn’t do to lose her concentration here, especially since that might have been an intended effect of the flattering greeting. “Thank you, sir.”

“I speak only the truth. Mister Potter must be quite proud of your achievements.” Dumbledore smiled at her. “Lemon drop?”

“No thank you.” Hermione’s answering smile was a bit strained. This was a purely scholastic matter, not something that needed the involvement of her Patron - it wasn’t as if her grades were failing, or anything else that might need an intervention from a guardian. “My Patron is aware of my plans and supports me.” She pulled out a few parchments and started to explain. “I am working on enchanting electronics so they will work at Hogwarts.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose a bit. “That is a problem many of the talented muggleborns have tackled during their time at Hogwarts in recent years. None have succeeded so far though.”

“I have conducted a number of experiments and I have come to the conclusion that magic itself does not affect electronics negatively. What disturbs their function is a side effect of the wards. The stronger the wards, the more powerful the effect.” Hermione pointed at a graph she had prepared. “It’s contained to the area that is warded. In hindsight, it was obvious. If it was the presence of magic itself, then London would have a zone around Diagon Alley where electronics would regularly stop working.”

“I am impressed, Miss Granger. You have proven that sometimes it takes an unbiased, fresh view of things to advance our knowledge.” Dumbledore nodded at her, slowly and respectfully.

“Thank you, sir. I’ve also created a workable runic array to counter the effect of a ward, though while it has been tested successfully - to a degree - at Grimmauld Place, adapting that to Hogwarts has run into a problem.” She pulled out another parchment and handed it over. “As you can see here, to shield the electronic device from the effects of a ward requires an inverted ward, of sorts. I call it a ‘counter-ward’. But, when I try this at Hogwarts, it doesn’t last as long as it should. I suspect that this is because the wards of Hogwarts do not allow other wards to be created inside them - not without permission, at least.” In hindsight, it was only logical that a ward would oppose an attempt to cancel it, even partially. It also meant she was more than a visitor at Grimmauld Place. Much more.

Dumbledore studied the parchments the young witch had presented to him, absently grabbing a lemon drop. Hermione noticed Fawkes, on his perch, inching closer and closer to the desk, staring at the bowl of sweets. The phoenix looked at her, then at the bowl, then back at her. Without looking up from his reading, the Headmaster stated “You have already had your daily amount of sweets, Fawkes. Please refrain from begging our guests to feed you more.”

Hermione hadn’t known phoenixes could sulk until she saw Fawkes’s reaction to that. She had to cough to avoid giggling, but when the phoenix seemed to pout at her reproachfully not even that helped.

“Even a magical creature as magnificent as a phoenix is prone to very simple desires, and foibles. A quite humbling thought, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” Hermione was certain the words hinted at something else, but she was waiting almost anxiously for the Headmaster to finish studying the notes she had prepared for him. She had been concise, yet detailed, laying it out all in a manner that should convince anyone - provided they cared about new magical discoveries. It was even safe, too. But what if the Headmaster deemed it not important enough? Or if he opposed the experiment because he certainly could see what it would lead to: Muggle devices at Hogwarts. Muggle culture at Hogwarts. An anathema to many purebloods. She knew Dumbledore did not share that opinion, but what if he felt her experiment, and the consequences of its - in her opinion inevitable - success would be too disruptive for Hogwarts, or Wizarding Britain? She started to bite her lower lip, then angrily stopped - she had to drop this habit, even though Harry found it cute.

Finally, the Headmaster put the parchments down and looked at her again. “A quite convincing presentation, Miss Granger. I expect this is not just a theoretical exercise.”

“No, sir. I’ve planned to shield a video cassette player and a television screen. Maybe a radio too, and a few other devices.” Like a calculator, which was, in her opinion, the most important thing she’d have to shield. It would be fun to watch movies at Hogwarts, but to be able to use a calculator for arithmantic equations would speed up her spell crafting projects immensely.

“Are you planning a Movie Night at Hogwarts?”

Hermione blinked in surprise, which seemed to amuse the old wizard.

Chuckling, he explained: “About a hundred years ago, when movies were invented, some wizards suspected a breach in the Statute of Secrecy, believing moving muggle pictures were magical in nature. When that was disproven, there was a brief craze about movies in Wizarding Britain. I remember attending a number of the early screenings myself. Though the black-and-white silent movies of the time did not hold the attention of wizards for long, and the matter was dismissed. I have kept up with technological progress in that field somewhat, over the years, if not as diligently as I had wanted.”

Hermione was once again reminded that Dumbledore was both older than any living muggle and more open-minded than most wizards half his age. “Yes, sir. I am planning to watch a few movies with my friends. It would be more like television though, not a cinematic experience.” Though now she couldn’t help but imagining a big screen in the Great Hall, and hundreds of wizards and witches watching a big Hollywood blockbuster.

The Headmaster nodded. “Such novel things might best be introduced in small doses to such an old school.”

And there went that dream. Hermione nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“I will grant you permission to conduct your experiment. I am certain you will responsible enough not to abuse the trust shown.”

Yes! “Thank you, Sir! I will not disappoint you!” Hermione had to fight not to scream with glee. This was her big break-through. Once this was working, it would allow her to work far more efficiently.

The Headmaster leaned back in his seat. “This is a truly excellent example of what muggleborns can give to Wizarding Britain. New ideas, new magic, and new insights.”

Hermione opened her mouth - that had hit a nerve - then hesitated. Should she comment on this remark? Risk an argument?

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

Merlin, she was a Gryffindor! Hermione thrust her chin up and met the older wizard’s eyes. “I think there would be more such examples, if the Patrons of muggleborns were a bit more open-minded, and not primarily concerned with ensuring that a muggleborn learns her place.”

“As unfortunate as it is, the older wizards and witches get, the more conservative they generally are.” Dumbledore smiled, but his eyes were serious. “But surely you have not suffered from such a mindset, with your Patron being the youngest in recorded history.”

“It’s not the age, but the fact that Harry was raised in the muggle world that makes him different. He knows both worlds, and he is not trying to make me forget my roots.”

“But isn’t the desire to stick to one’s roots a foible similar to the conservative mindset among Patrons that you criticize? The Patron system was created to make sure muggleborns found a place in the Magical World, to help them integrate in a society they were not born into. Staying in the muggle world runs counter to that goal.”

“That would be a better argument if we’d actually were accepted in the Magical World. As it is we are expected and ‘encouraged’ to abandon our culture in order to become third-class citizens in the Magical World.” Hermione couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “It’s not exactly a fair trade.”

“You are an intelligent witch, Miss Granger. You must be aware that the lives of muggleborns in Britain are barely different from those of half-bloods and purebloods. You’d be hard-pressed to know their status on sight.” Dumbledore’s tone let the teacher he had been shine through, correcting a student’s mistake.

Hermione wasn’t about to admit to a mistake. “Again, that would be true - if you do not count the marriage limits, and the Wizengamot. Two rather important parts of life.”

Dumbledore couldn’t really counter the marriage limits muggleborns were faced with. He tried it anyway. “As your Patron’s parents have proven, love will find a way around the limits of law. Do you truly care so much about the legal aspects?”

“It’s the principle of the thing. Being told by the law that I am not worth as much as others simply due to the circumstances of my birth, is an insult not borne lightly. The insult is doubled by the fact that even though I am among the most talented witches of this school, I have fewer prospects after graduation than any pureblood.” Hermione was almost baring her teeth when she had finished and took a deep breath to calm down again.

“That’s a theoretical limit in your case. I am quite sure you will achieve whatever you want, with your Patron’s full support, even though the exact ways you will use to do so might differ from those of a pureblood.”

“I am aware of what I can be in private as long as I am minding my place in public.” The young muggleborn witch smiled cynically. She had her pride, and playing second fiddle to anyone in public was not something she liked. Besides, she was not about to share Harry. Not even if it was just for appearance’s sake.

“I would have been surprised if you had been ignorant of that.”

“And yet there are limits I cannot overcome, not even in private. The Wizengamot, for example.”

“There are very few among the purebloods who can expect to become a member of that body. You are hardly unique in that. And there are ways to exert some influence on the Wizengamot without being a member.”

Lobbying, or rather, bribes, Hermione thought cynically. “That doesn’t make it right, Headmaster.”

“I am not saying that is right, or fair. But life is seldom fair. All we can do is to strive to make it better. And your planned Movie Night will be a step towards that.”

“Hopefully, sir.” And the things she would be able to do with a working electronic calculator, or even a computer, later, at Hogwarts would be another, bigger step. She didn’t say that though.

“Indeed. The older I grow, the more I realise that we cannot predict the future with any certainty - certain oracles and prophecies exempted, of course.” The Headmaster stood up and conjured a small cup. “I’ll need a bit of your blood, to give you access to the wards.”

Hermione took the cup. She hadn’t really expected him to let her know where the central runes that powered and directed the wards of the school were located, but she had still hoped to see them. Wincing, she hesitated a few seconds, before using a cutting hex to slice into her palm. She hissed at the sudden pain while she let blood drop into the cup.

“That should be enough, Miss Granger. I am sorry for the pain you had to suffer through, but certain magics require a small sacrifice, as unpleasant as it may be.”

Hermione closed the wound with another spell, nodding. Certain magics required far larger sacrifices, of course.

“You should be able to do your experiments tomorrow evening. I am looking forward to seeing the results.”

“Will you be present yourself, Sir?” Hermione was a bit taken aback. She considered those experiments hers, and hers alone, and to have the Headmaster there felt a bit like if he would be holding her hand.

“I think that it would be prudent. As you said, the wards of this school are very powerful, and very old. I do not think there is a significant risk of a catastrophic failure, but my presence will ensure your and everyone else’s safety.”

“Indeed, Sir.” On the other hand, he had a good point. A mistake while drawing on those wards would be something she’d rather avoid.

“Good evening then, Miss Granger. It has been a pleasure to discuss with you. I do hope we will have another talk in the future.”

The door to the office opened soundlessly at a gesture from Dumbledore.

“Good evening, Headmaster.” Hermione bowed, gathered her notes with a flick of her wand, then left. When the gargoyle had moved to block the entrance behind her again, her torc grew warm and she noticed a figure stepping out from an alcove. Harry.

“How did it go?”

“I got permission.”

“Great!” The beaming smile on Harry’s face, and the hug he gathered Hermione in, drove away the lingering resentment the discussion about muggleborns with the Headmaster had caused.

*****

“Bertram! I haven’t seen you in a while. How are things in Magical Creatures?”

Arthur Weasley smiled at Bertram Fickleton, a Hufflepuff of his year at Hogwarts, falling in next to the corpulent wizard on his way to the Floo connections after a day at the Ministry.

“Arthur! The department’s very busy, at least my division. We’ve been buried under requests for reports from various Wizengamot members.” Bertram slowed down a bit as he started talking, and a hurried-looking Obliviator passed both of them with a mumbled apology for bumping into the other wizard.

“Oh? I wasn’t aware there’s legislature in the works, especially not for the Beings Division.” Arthur was not that well-connected, but he did have friends all over the Ministry, and he liked to keep abreast of any new law, if only to make sure that it wouldn’t impact his own work.

“Nothing is official yet, but the grapevine claims that we’re looking at another reclassification effort.” Bertram sighed.

“Another attempt to persuade the centaurs and merpeople?” Arthur knew both species had refused to be classified as beings because they did not want to be thrown in with species like hags and vampires, and therefore were classified as beasts by default. From time to time a new, idealistic Ministry employe would try to make them see reason, usually without any success, sometimes ending up in St. Mungo’s as a result if they caught the centaurs on a day when Mars was bright.

“I wish! We’d know how to handle that. No, this is coming from the Wizengamot, and involves reclassifying some magical creatures as beasts. Such a thing hasn’t happened in decades, so we’ve all pretty much been caught on the wrong foot and have to make up things as we go.” Bertram had the long-suffering expression of a bureaucrat forced to leave his comfort zone.

“Which creature do they want to reclassify as beasts?” Arthur hadn’t heard of any incident that would make a Wizengamot member try to claim a species was, like Acromantulas, too lethal and violent to be a magical being, no matter their intelligence. The last giant rampage in Britain had been centuries ago, and Greyback’s atrocities during the last war had been overshadowed by the exploits of the Death Eaters.

“We’ve been compiling reports about Veela, werewolves, hags, vampires and giants.”

“What? That’s just about every magical being!”

“Yes! The division would be reduced to the Goblin Liaison Office and the Office for House-Elf Relocation!” Bertram shook his head in apparent shock. “Everyone of us is working as hard as possible to prevent this.”

“I bet. Who came up with this nonsense?”

“I don’t know - the requests came from different members.” Bertram shrugged. “We cannot exactly ask them - Wizengamot members are a bit prickly when one insinuates they might be working for someone else.”

“Oh, yes.” Arthur chuckled, but he had to force himself to, waving while Bertram took the floo to his home. Then he sighed. Such a piece of legislation would damage the relations to all those species, even if it failed. And it was certain it would fail. The Wizengamot was not as foolish as the Ministry employees liked to claim after a few pints in the Leaky Cauldron.

He muttered a curse Molly would scold him for. His family would be directly affected - Bill was serious about Fleur, and this would have a big impact on their relationship; namely where they would be living after marriage, maybe even on their marriage itself. Fleur already was not fond of the fact she was considered a half-blood in Britain. If she heard the Wizengamot was debating whether she was to be classified as a beast… He was sure that that would cause fireballs to fly.

Whoever was behind this was likely planning to stir up trouble, and that pointed at those wizards the Headmaster was worried about. He’d have to meet Bertram for a chat tomorrow, in his office, and see if he could take a look at the requests from the Wizengamot. Maybe Arthur could recognize the style.

He checked his watch, then nodded. Percy would still be working. His son hadn’t been visiting the Burrow as often as Molly would have liked since he had moved out into a flat of his own, and inviting him for dinner would be a good cover for informing him about this ploy. Percy had his own contacts in the Ministry, and a good relationship with Barty Crouch. He might find out more about this as well. In times like these, family had to stick together.

*****

Harry Potter told himself that it was for the best, that Hermione was much safer this way, that it was just the smart thing to do, and that it wasn’t as if there was any other choice. It did not help - he still didn’t like the Headmaster assisting Hermione with her experiment.

This was their private room. They had picked it, furnished it, enchanted it together. They had invited friends, of course, but above all it had been theirs. Many evenings the two of them had been sitting there, talking, snogging, and sharing their dreams. Well, not all of their dreams. Some of the dreams he had had, usually after a talk with his godfather, he’d not tell anyone, least of all Hermione. He forced his thoughts away from those guilty pleasures. He still felt like the Headmaster was intruding on them in their home. It couldn’t be helped though - Hogwarts was Dumbledore’s castle, after all. Harry summoned a can of cola for himself and took a sip, watching his Hermione go over the rune array in the radio with the old wizard.

“Feels almost like a lesson, doesn’t it, mate?” Ron whispered behind him, then slid over the couch and fell into the seat next to Harry. A bottle of butterbeer followed him, floating next to his head. “Weird that it’s not Hermione doing the lecturing.”

Harry frowned, then nodded. “Weird.” Maybe that was why Hermione was taking this much better than he had expected when she first told him that the Headmaster would be attending the experiment. If she saw it not as an intrusion, but a special lesson… he took another sip from his can, watching Hermione nod eagerly at Dumbledore complimenting her rune arrays.

“If that was Lockhart I’d be concerned in your place.” Ron chuckled.

Harry laughed. Ron’s joke still stung a bit, but only a bit. The thought of Albus Dumbledore as a romantic rival for the affections of his retainer was absurd. Lockhart, of course, would be a different matter - most of the girls had had a crush on the handsome author in their second year. Hermione too, now that he thought of it. “It’s not Lockhart though.” He knew Hermione loved him. He was still glad it was not Lockhart here with them.

“Speaking of, my dad told me that the last rider on the Basilisk Bill was removed, and it’s expected to pass at the next session. We’ll get our money, only two years late.” Ron grinned widely.

“Better late than never. And it’s not as we’re hurting for gold.” Not at all. Even if Hermione still felt guilty for ‘wasting’ Harry’s money on her projects. He would have to convince her that it wasn’t wasted at all, as long as it made her happy. The compensation for the basilisk they had killed together with Lockhart would help with that, hopefully. Even though her not getting a cut of her own, but only through him, would vex her. Harry frowned. Life wasn’t fair for muggleborns.

“We’re about to test it!”

Hermione’s excited voice shook him from his gloomy thoughts. The witch was beaming and pointing at the radio standing in the middle of the stone table. Ron ducked and shielded his face jokingly, and Harry was sure that if Dumbledore hadn’t been there, Ron would have been dodging a jinx or two right now, which Hermione would later excuse as ‘extra defense training’.

Hermione frowned instead, and glared at Ron, who was entirely unimpressed. He should know better than to tweak Hermione’s nose like this, Harry thought - Sirius had been a bad influence on her. Then again, Ron had grown up with Fred and George. He was used to getting pranked. Or hexed. Ginny had a rather nasty temper too, when she was riled up.

“I think we are ready, Miss Granger.”

Hermione beamed again, took a deep breath, then pushed a button on the radio. Harry heard a crackling sound and for a moment was sure the experiment had failed. Then a pop song’s lyrics filled the room and he realised it had just been the usual static until the correct frequency had been found. Harry didn’t recognize the song or singer.

Hermione was staring at the radio, biting her lower lip and pulling on a strand of her hair that had escaped her styling spell. The song ended - according to the radio moderator it had been Michael Jackson’s ‘You Are Not Alone’ - and ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ took its place. The radio still didn’t spontaneously combust.

“Ah, Music. Magical in all its appearances.” Dumbledore was smiling widely.

Hermione was still staring at the radio, and checking her watch. Harry stepped up and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He knew better than to congratulate her, it would only trigger a small rant about proper procedure in testing, and how it could still fail. She leaned into him, her head touching his shoulder.

The Headmaster waved his wand over the radio. “I do not detect any degradation of the wards, or the runes.”

“It’s still a bit early.” Hermione stated, but she was smiling now. It figured that Dumbledore could call it, Harry thought.

“Indeed. But I think we can start on your Video Cassette Player now.”

“Oh, Yes!”

And with that, Hermione’s full attention was on the next step of her planned experiment. Harry wasn’t certain if she even noticed that he had returned to the couch, where Ron was still seated.

“Mental, mate.”

“She’s been working towards this for years,” Harry defended his retainer.

“I know, but you should have seen your face.” His redheaded friend chuckled again, finishing his bottle. “Dumped for a muggle artifact, how tragic. Hey - that sounds kind of kinky.”

Harry decided that he’d help Hermione with whatever she would do to get back at Ron. And maybe ask Sirius for ideas.

*****

“This looks like the remains of a Defense O.W.L. examination day,” Kenneth Fenbrick stated, waving his wand and staring at the busted shop at the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Debris was strewn around the entrance, and inside, all over the place. The sign, proclaiming it to be ‘Dan’s Trusty Trinkets’, had been torn off and banished through the window. “Reducto, Confringo, Bombarda, Incendio a few times. Aguamenti too - some moron probably set himself on fire by accident and had to douse himself.” It had happened to a classmate of his, at his O.W.L. exam.

“Are you suggesting that a group of students went overboard while revising?” Bertha Limmington, Kenneth’s partner, sounded as if she was doubting him. Or mocking him. It was hard to tell with her deadpan delivery.

“No. I’m just saying that this was the work of an uncoordinated bunch of thugs using basic spells. Not a team of wands for hire.”

“Or they wanted to make it look like it was a group of untrained thugs.” Bertha crouched down and poked a melted lamp with her wand. The thing was still floating, despite being half-destroyed. That was some strong spellwork there.

“It was a second-hand shop for trinkets. Not usually the kind of shop that would rate such attention. And if it did, it’d have had better defenses. What did the owner say?” Kenneth stepped around the shattered and still smoking remains of the counter. The fire wards had held, since the building was still standing, so someone had been trying very hard to get a fire going. Dumb and stubborn.

“That he has no idea why anyone would attack his shop. No one asked for protection money, apparently, and he doesn’t remember any enemies.” Bertha stood up, stretching slightly, and Kenneth once again wished she was a bit more fun.

“Do you believe him?”

“I believe we need to investigate this further,” Bertha stated in her usual, careful manner, refusing to answer him. Kenneth was certain that if he asked her how the weather was, she’d say something like ‘I think it looks like it’s currently sunny’ or something.

“That’s the second shop in the area that was hit like this. First ‘Carol’s Clothes’, now this one. I think someone has plans for this area. Maybe a gang.” Kenneth was more inclined to trust his gut, even without hard evidence. And his gut told him that this was not just the work of some drunk idiots blowing off steam.

“We cannot rule out any explanation at this point.”

“Maybe it’s a plot from a warding firm. To create demand for better security,” Kenneth speculated.

Bertha gave him a look that said that contrary to her words, she was ruling out this explanation. Kenneth knew as well as his partner that the kind of firm that those shops would contract would not risk hiring thugs in Knockturn Alley, for fear of getting blackmailed as a result. But some people were just dumb enough to do it anyway.

“Both shopkeepers were muggleborn,” Bertha stated as the two left the ruined shop.

Kenneth knew what she was hinting at. “Most of the shopkeepers around this part are muggleborns.” Only the really poor purebloods would start a business that close to Knockturn Alley.

Bertha nodded, acknowledging the point. Kenneth didn’t mention that he had thought about that as well. Some things one didn’t mention though, the war was still fresh in people’s minds, and the attack on the World Cup a year ago hadn’t helped. “Did they increase the foot patrols in the area?”

Bertha shook her head. “No. The brass said there was no need for that since it was just some vandalism.”

“I wonder what they’ll say when the first shop owner gets wrecked along with his shop.”

Bertha didn’t answer that. Kenneth hadn’t expected her to either.

*****

“Mister Longbottom, were you born this stupid, or did someone curse you? If you are as inept with your wand as you are with your cauldron, the latter seems quite plausible. That’s by far the worst attempt at a Pepper-Up potion I have ever seen in my entire career!”

Neville cringed, and Hermione Granger winced in sympathy. The Potions Master had been far nastier this term than in the years before. What used to be biting sarcasm was now bordering on verbal abuse more often than not. Crossing over a few times, even. Everyone, including Slytherins, suffered from his sharp tongue at the slightest provocation, but Neville had it the worst. Her friend was not talented in Potions - Hermione, the default tutor in their dorm knew that better than anyone else - and he tended to attract the lion’s share of Snape’s ire and venom.

“I would ask you to drink it so you would finally learn to pay more attention to your teachers, but I think it would just shock you into a coma by wrecking your tiny brain, and St. Mungo’s should not be burdened with you when there are other, not self-inflicted cases to treat.” The professor sneered and vanished Neville’s potion before turning away.

Hermione gasped at the cruel comment. Bringing up Neville’s parents like this… she was certain Snape knew about their fate, and had done that deliberately to hurt the Gryffindor. Neville himself was trembling, tears - of anguish or anger, or both, she couldn’t say - forming in his eyes.

Snape smiled faintly and addressed the class: “Those who, like Mister Longbottom, seem determined to waste valuable ingredients to produce failed potions that would do more harm than good should anyone be so foolish as to imbibe them, would do well to study their books again until the next lesson. While I have no doubt that our resident menace to cauldrons will fail his O.W.L.s, some of you dunderheads might still achieve a passing grade with hard work. If you even know what hard work means, spoiled as you are. Now clean your cauldrons and get out!”

Hermione was trembling with anger herself when she left the classroom. How could a teacher be so vile? Harry too looked incensed, and Ron was muttering words Mrs Weasley would scourgify his mouth for under his breath. Neville meanwhile seemed to have shrunk, his shoulders hunched and his gate fixated on the floor, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

Malfoy sneered at the Gryffindors while walking past. “That lout’s a menace. One of those days he’ll kill us all with a cauldron explosion. We can just hope the blast will be contained by his fellow Gryffindors!” he loudly complained to Parkinson, who looked slightly uncomfortable. Did the brainless witch really think Neville would kill them by accident? He had melted two cauldrons, but that had been in their first year!

Everyone of the students exiting the room had heard the words of the blond Slytherin, as he no doubt had intended. Hermione saw Neville tense up and draw his wand. The Gryffindor might even have done something violent, if not for Harry and Ron grabbing his arms and pulling him away. Hermione glared at Malfoy and Parkinson before following the boys. She kept her wand ready though, and an eye on the couple - if they tried to hex Harry in the back they’d be cursed before they could lift their wands.

A few minutes later they were in what everyone now knew as their room, and Neville was blasting at stone animals conjured by Ron and Harry. “Curse that git! I hope he dies from one of his potions!” The normally calm and friendly student was ranting, shaking with rage as his spells hit the floor and walls as often as the animals. Hermione was very glad she had reinforced the room with spells, back when she started using it for spell crafting, testing, and other experiments.

After a few minutes, Neville seemed to run out of steam and collapsed on a couch. He hid his face with his hands while his shoulders shook. No one said anything, but when he stopped and wiped his face, Ron handed him a butterbeer with a nod.

Hermione took a drink of her own - a sugar free diet coke - and sat down next to Harry. “We need to file a complaint. The Potions Master was far out of line.”

“If my Gran heard of this, she’d duel him. She’s good, but Snape’s nasty. I don’t want to risk her getting hurt, or…” Neville took a deep breath, fighting to keep his composure again. Hermione’s heart went out to him.

“Mate, hate to say it, but even if we do not tell anyone, this will get out. Malfoy’s probably laughing all the way to their dorm, and you can bet that this kind of news spreads fast.” Ron patted Neville’s shoulder.

“If the school takes action your grandmother won’t duel him.” Hermione hoped so, in any case - if a grievance was handled by the law, it was very uncommon to end in a duel. These days, at least. Duels were still tolerated even though they were technically illegal.

Neville slowly nodded. “I guess I don’t have a choice then.”

“OK, let’s write down what happened then, so there’s no doubt about it!”

Hermione summoned a few sheets of parchment from her stack in the room, followed by quills and pens. It didn’t take long until they had a detailed report ready. Hermione duplicated the parchment a few times and handed two copies off to Neville. She’d have offered to fill out his complaint form for him as well, if that had not been a faux pas bordering on an insult. She wasn’t his retainer, after all. Just his friend.

True to Ron’s prediction, Ginny arrived then, having heard of the incident from the other Gryffindors of their year, and another round of drinks was summoned. Hermione made a mental note to restock their private pantry next week. While food could be gotten from the house elves in the kitchen easily, drinks other than pumpkin juice had to be bought elsewhere, especially muggle softdrinks.

“So, I heard you finished your muggle ‘player’. What exactly does it do?”

Neville was obviously wanting to talk about anything but Snape’s vitriol if he was asking about Hermione’s experiments, since he had not shown any interest in them so far. The young witch was only too happy to oblige him though.

“It’s a Video Cassette Player. Together with a television we can watch muggle movies here at Hogwarts.”

Hermione showed the group the player and the screen, both standing in a corner in the room. Then she had to explain what movies were, though she was not certain if Neville truly had no idea, or simply wanted to make sure they’d not talk about the incident in Potions again.

“We need to decide what kind of movies we’ll be watching though - I have to order them from my parents,” Hermione stated after she had finished explaining. There was no telling what kind of movies Sirius would send them, if they asked him. Or Nymphadora.

“Star Wars!” Harry said at once.

“It’s a great movie, and a classic,” Hermione admitted. It might be a bit much for purebloods, but if it was just them and their close friends, Hermione was sure she could explain the concept of Science Fiction to the purebloods. “I was thinking of a movie set in our time first though. Maybe a comedy.”

“It would have to be a rather blunt comedy. Most of the humour of the more sophisticated ones would require constant explanations. And that kills the experience.” Harry countered.

“Yes.” Hermione sighed. The first movie night with Nymphadora had been quite tiring, almost stressful even for her. She couldn’t enjoy a movie if she had to explain every scene. The young witch frowned. There should be a movie that was both classy and easy to understand. Then it hit her.

“We could watch an animated Disney movie!”

Of course then she had to explain what an animated movie was, and what Disney was about. At least by the time she had explained that the Magic Kingdom was not an American wizard enclave, at least not to her knowledge, she had convinced the others to watch ‘‘The Lion King’ at the first Hogwarts Movie Night.

*****

“Oh, you fought in the Intervention? You must be really brave and powerful!” Mathilda Miller was laying it on thick, probably too thick. But her mark was drunk, and what wits the Firewhiskey had left him were busy trying to picture her naked judging by his leering expression. Not that the robes she was wearing at the moment made that feat particularly difficult. A few floating strips of fabric and illusionary wisps of smoke didn’t conceal much of her body.

Seducing a drunken wand for hire who was dumb enough to boast of having taken part in an operation that happened before he was born was almost beneath her. Mathilda had been trained by the best courtesans of the French Court, after all. But Aberforth had asked her to help him, and she owed the old man too much to refuse. Even if he was acting on behalf of his brother. Former brother, she corrected herself. If not for Aberforth, her sister would have ended up a Janissary. And Mathilda herself would have gotten killed trying to rescue her.

And so she was sitting in a dive in Knockturn Alley, flirting with a lout named Gerald Tuckle, who might know more about the latest hiring wave among the bottom feeders of Wizarding Britain by virtue of belonging to the ranks of said bottom feeders. At least no one here would recognize her thanks to a few other spells and muggle makeup.

“Oh, yes. I am the best wand in the alley.”

“You must be rich too then - the best is paid the most.” Long practise kept Mathilda smiling and her giggle when the wizard pulled her on his lap convincingly surprised sounding.

“Oh, yes. I just got paid!” The wizard shook a purse, as if in the age of expansion charms anyone could still tell how much gold a wizard carried.

“Oh, so you are looking for work again?” Mathilda ran a hand through her mark’s beard. Well groomed, if not too bright or handsome.

“No, I am paid a tidy sum just for not hiring on with anyone else!” The wizard’s hand - his left, he kept his wand hand free - was starting to wander while he boasted.

“Your boss must be smart then - and rich.”

“That he is.”

Mathilda gently but firmly grabbed the wizard’s hand before it could get too far. “Maybe we should retire to a private room? This is hardly the place for an intimate discussion,” she whispered into his ear.

As expected the mercenary readily agreed - she had taken care to appear just a cut above the other women plying their trade in the dive. Not enough to look out of place, but enough to stand out. Casting advanced privacy spells in public could alert whoever was hiring those lowlives. A private room, with a few more spells layered on, would be a much better place to use legilimency on a drunk and exhausted wizard.

*****

Sirius, wearing his best robes, bowed to the four lovely girls who had just arrived by Floo. Chantal, Eugénie, Laure and Valérie, the shy one. Or so he thought he remembered her as. His memory was a bit fuzzy when it came to the nights spent in Chateau d’Aigle. But they were happy memories. They had to be happy memories. No one could be less than perfectly happy with so many charming Veela. Straightening up, the wizard declared: “I offer you the hospitality of my home.”

Chantal, the eldest Veela and default leader of the group, bowed, followed by her cousins. “We accept your ‘ospitality.”

With the formalities over, Sirius grinned widely, and winked at the Veela. “Welcome to No 12, Grimmauld Place! Ancestral home of the Black Family, and once the most cursed building in London.”

As expected, that caused the girls to giggle, though a bit nervously. Curses were a serious matter, after all. Or were supposed to be - a lot of curses were quite funny, if they happened to the right person. Sirius could think of a number of people who’d fit that bill. Laure was eyeing the floo powder bowl as if it might sprout teeth and leap at her any moment. Though that curse had been one of the first that had been taken care of, of course.

He smiled at her. “Rest assured, the best Curse-Breakers gold could hire cleared the house. It’s perfectly safe now.” It never hurt to subtly mention that he was rich. People were so much more tolerant and friendly if they knew one had money. “Safe from curses and dark magic, at least,” he added with a grin. “Some of my less gifted friends would consider me a danger to beautiful witches.”

Chantal giggled. “Why would they think that? You are, after all, a perfect gentleman.”

Why, yes, he was - for a certain definition of ‘perfect’, of course.

“Jealousy, no doubt. Now let me show you your rooms.”

He offered his arms to Chantal and Laure, and led the group upstairs, to the guest rooms, pointing at a few portraits on the walls. It felt good to have more guests in the house. With his family off at Hogwarts, the house was too lonely. Remus was visiting often, but he wasn’t enough. Neither was Viktor.

“Those four rooms have been prepared for you, feel free to use them as long as you wish.” He pointed to the last four doors in the hallway on the first floor, then at the first door. “This room is occupied by Viktor Krum. He’s spending a few weeks here. He’s currently sightseeing in London with Nymphadora, but he will be back for dinner.”

“Ah!” Eugénie smirked. “Nymphadora ‘as an amant then?”

Sirius suspected the seeker fancied his cousin quite a bit, for joining her on her expeditions into muggle London, but it wouldn’t do to gossip about close family. Unless it was Narcissa. “I would never pry into the private life of my cousin,” he stated, with as much honesty as he could muster.

“We can always ask them at dinner, can’t we?” Laure smiled innocently, but her eyes shone with mirth. A witch after his own heart, Sirius thought.

“Of course.” Dinner would be entertaining. Especially if Remus would stay after his ‘walk’ through Muggle London. Why his old friend suddenly had decided to explore the muggle part of the town Sirius couldn’t fathom, but at least he hadn’t tried to tag along with Nymphadora and Viktor. “Once you’re settled in your rooms I’ll show you the rest of the house. We’ll skip the dungeons in the cellar, of course.”

“Dungeons, Sirius?” Eugénie asked.

“Dungeons.” Sirius nodded. Clearing the curses from those areas had been interesting.

“That sounds interesting...” Valérie spoke up, for the first time since arriving.

Sirius blinked in surprise at the shy one, but quickly smiled. “If you wish to see them I will of course comply with your request, though I’ve to warn you: my ancestors had some peculiar tastes.”

“Oh, those sort of dungeons?” She blushed in a quite fetching manner.

“Yes.” There were the other sorts of dungeons as well. His family’s reputation had been well-deserved, after all. But those rooms he had personally wrecked and sealed off. He had no intention to let them be used ever again.

Chantal giggled, drawing his attention back to her. “I ‘ave to thank you again, Sirius, for your generous invitation.” She paused just long enough for him to open his mouth to answer, then continued: “Later tonight.”

That caused another round of giggles and comments. Sirius kissed her hand. “Only a cad would refuse this, mademoiselle.” He ran his thumb over the back of her hand before releasing it, and was pleased to see her smile widen in response.

The four witches disappeared into their rooms to freshen up, and Sirius went downstairs. One of the portraits of his ancestors frowned at him disapprovingly, but he ignored it. There was no reason to feel guilty, or bad. None at all. He had four lovely witches in his house, he had to be happy. Anyone in his place would be happy.

He didn’t know why he changed into a dog for a nap, but Padfoot was not questioning it.

*****

Remus Lupin was scowling while he was walking through London. He didn’t see the appeal of the muggle town at all. Muggle city, whatever. Too many people, too many cars, too many unfamiliar things. No magic at all. Why would anyone want to spend time here, instead of in Wizarding Britain? Well, he knew why Krum was doing it - the boy was trying to get into Nymphadora’s pants. Or had succeeded already.

Remus was not fond of the relationship that seemed to be forming between the Bulgarian and Sirius’s cousin. Even if the star seeker was not just abusing his fame to score with an impressionable young witch, or simply wanted to try out how a metamorphmagus was in bed, how long could a relationship last when one partner was an Auror, working long hours in Britain, and the other a professional Quidditch player from Bulgaria?

The werewolf couldn’t understand why Sirius was not concerned. Nymphadora was his family, after all. By blood. Sure, Krum had fought at their side, but so had Peter, once.

The cursed wizard stopped, closing his eyes for a moment. What was he thinking? Krum was no Pettigrew. And Nymphadora was no student of his, nor a former student. There was no reason to be that worked up. None at all.

Angry at himself, he lengthened his strides, stalking through the streets, no longer paying attention to the muggles, who were avoiding him. Until he saw a werewolf in a shop.

He almost drew his wand before he realised it was but a life-sized picture. And there was no full moon anyway, or he’d not be here. Why would muggles have such a thing in their shop? Did anyone break the Statute of Secrecy? He gasped. If a werewolf had deliberately exposed himself to muggles, the repercussions for all other werewolves would be worse than after Greyback’s rampages in the last war. He had to investigate!

With that thought he entered the ‘video shop’, passing a sign that announced a ‘horror movie sale’. Upon closer examination, the werewolf was not as lifelike as he had feared. The dimensions were wrong, and a werewolf could not stand like this. Unless of course it was a foreign variant he was not familiar with. Though, the Quibbler’s claims notwithstanding, he doubted such a thing existed.

“Do you like werewolves?” A perky voice interrupted his study of the picture.

“What?” He turned around and saw the sales girl was smiling at him.

“You’ve been looking at the cutout for minute. Are you interested in werewolves? We’ve got all the werewolf movies ever made on sale. Well, all the good ones at least.”

There were werewolf movies? Why hadn’t anyone ever told him that? He was a bit sensitive about his curse, yes, but he’d have expected Hermione at least to tell him about such things. “Yes, please.”

“There are all on this shelf here. The classics, and the goofy ones, like Teen Wolf.”

“Teen Wolf?”

The sales girl pointed to a small box depicting a boy with furry hands and weird clothes. On the back there was a picture of a brown yeti in weirder clothes. “That’s supposed to be a werewolf?”

“Well, it’s a comedy.”

“A comedy? About a werewolf?” It took all of his self-control not to set the box on fire. To make light of the terrible curse that had ruined his life, to turn it into entertainment … at least he knew why it was called a horror movie.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort was watching as six of his latest potential recruits approached the small house in one of London’s sprawling suburbs. It belonged to Brian Smith, a mudblood working at ‘Calderson’s’, a shop owned by a blood traitor. A good target to test the resolve of the wands he had hired. He himself was polyjuiced into Finnegan Greenbrand and wearing his customary hood, and had hidden himself under a Disillusion Charm as well, just in case anyone witnessed this - and lived to tell the tale.

He watched with a critical eye as they cast Anti-Apparition and Anti-Muggle Jinxes, and blocked Floo travel. Slow, and a bit sloppy, but not as bad as he had feared. But the real trick was breaking the wards on the house. They were not particularly strong, a far cry from the wards on the home of an old pureblood family, but if they bungled it up, the backlash might alert the obliviators. And kill them, if their shields were as sloppy as their wandwork.

They didn’t bungle it, though they came close. So close actually, that he had been tempted to hex the lot and do it himself. But that would have defeated the purpose of this exercise. Smith must have noticed the attack by now, but he hadn’t shown himself. He either was cowering, paralyzed with fright, trying to hide, or was preparing an ambush.

One thug blew the door open with a reducto and charged in. Sloppy. Should have at least cast a Shield Charm first, or sent a few more spells inside. Or gone through a window. Before the rest of the wizards could follow, spells flashed inside the house, and the first thug’s body flew out through the window. Smith had been waiting for them then. Quite a strong banishment spell, but the thug would live.

More spells followed, forcing the rest of the attackers to take cover, and Smith shot out of the window on a broom. For a moment, Voldemort was tempted to let him escape. He had taught the rabble a lesson or two, after all, which they’d not soon forget. And the desire to avenge that slight would motivate them further. But then, it was a mudblood, and he had other plans. A flick of his wand sent a few spells at the fleeing wizard, causing him to crash when his broom ceased to function.

Smith was hurt, dazed from the impact, and still he managed to get his wand up and shield himself. But ganging up on a single, wounded target was what the thugs were good at. And so Smith got the worst possible outcome - he couldn’t escape, but didn’t die quickly either.

Voldemort made a note of the various spells and enthusiasm shown by the group, then went into the house to hide a few stolen items inside. That should convince the Aurors investigating it that Smith had been a thief and this attack was just criminals settling accounts among themselves. And it would damage the reputation of the mudblood’s employer and Patron as well.

*****

It had been supposed to be just Harry, herself, and their close friends, Ron, Neville, Ginny, Luna and Aicha, at the first Movie Night at Hogwarts. But of course, Ron had to invite Padma as well. Susan had invited herself, at least in Hermione Granger’s opinion, as soon as she had heard of it - they couldn’t refuse her when she asked if she could come as well, that would have been an insult. And the redhead had brought her best friend Hannah Abbot. No one had invited Fred and George, but to send them away would have meant pranks disturbing the event. And the twins had brought the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team as well as their friend Lee.

All in all there were about three times the number of people attending than expected. Hermione wouldn’t have minded that much - Sirius had bought the largest display possible, which meant it could handle that number - if not for the event turning public enough so she’d have to be Harry’s retainer, instead of his friend. Distributing snacks and drinks, handling the furniture - well, she’d have done that anyway, she wanted her big triumph to be perfect after all - and explaining what an animated movie was.

But when she unveiled the television display and put the cassette into the player, when she dimmed the lights in the room and started the movie, all that was forgotten. She had made history! She had proven a widespread assumption wrong! She had brought muggle movies to Hogwarts!

It was a very proud and happy witch that snuggled up to her boyfriend while on the screen Simba was introduced to his future subjects, and the magic of Walt Disney started to affect the wizards and witches watching the movie with rapt attention, enthralled by a magic they hadn’t known before.

*****


	18. Grave News

**Chapter 18: Grave News**

When Simba’s and Nala’s cub was presented to the other animals, and the closing song was starting, many of the watching wizards and witches were still spellbound. A number even had tears in their eyes, Hermione Granger noted.

“Wow!” Susan Bones summed up the most common reaction. “So that’s Disney.”

“Do muggle animals talk and sing like that?” Luna, of course, was focusing on something else. “A sphinx could do both, I think.”

“No, Luna, it’s an animated movie. Animals, I mean, muggle animals, do not really talk like that.” Hermione briefly struggled with the temptation to start lecturing about the movie’s background, the similarities to the ‘Kimba the White Lion’ TV series, and the voice actors chosen for the roles, but managed not to. It would have detracted from the impact of the work of art. “They invented the story, the characters and the music for this movie.”

“I didn’t know muggles could do something like that. Gran told me she saw a few muggle movies, but they were all in black and white, and had no sound.” Neville commented.

“That’s how they started. They soon added music, and later sound. Then color, about 50 years ago. Since then they also added 3D effects, though those require special glasses, and are not too common.” Hermione couldn’t help expanding on the technical history.

“That was just a TV screen. Imagine watching that movie in a theatre, on a big screen!” Harry put in, helpfully.

“Oh, can we do that?” Luna piped up. “Would the Great Hall be big enough for the screen?”

Hermione frowned at her Patron before answering that. “It would, but we can’t really put a cinema into Hogwarts. Well, we could maybe acquire a projector, but it would be quite the project. Simply enlarging the TV picture with a lens would not work well.”

Sirius might, if asked, buy a video projector. But a real cinema projector? Even if she managed to get one of those, and shield it, Hermione wasn’t certain if she could acquire movies for it as a private citizen. Not without some record fudging with magic, at least. And creating a fake cinema seemed a bit too complicated. On the other hand, they would get access to all the newest movies...

“How did they make the pictures move without magic?” George asked, interrupting her train of thoughts. He and his brother had stuck their heads together for a while.

Hermione happily started to explain how animated movies worked. It was not too easy for a wizard to understand though, as she found out. If only she had thought of getting or making a flip-book!

“The pictures are not moving, but they fool our eyes to make us think they are moving? How is that possible without magic?”

Hermione’s smile became a bit forced as she delved into how eyes worked, which led to a brief excurse into biology. Which attracted Luna, who apparently felt that biology was close enough to magizoology to require further study.

By the time Hermione was trying to explain that the ‘trick’ animators used to make the spectators think the pictures were moving couldn’t be used by Snorkacks to fool hunters her boyfriend and their best friend were openly smirking from where they were talking about the movie’s story and music with the rest of their friends. Traitors!

Thank God they hadn’t shown Star Wars! If they ever did, Harry would be fielding all those questions. And maybe she’d ask a few of her own, just to see him sweat! She’d need something else to get back at Ron, though.

*****

News of the Movie Night spread quickly, Harry Potter thought after getting up in the morning. Shortly after he and his friends had returned to the Gryffindor dorms last night, right before curfew, everyone inside had heard of the event. He was certain even those among his fellow students who had professed to have no interest in ‘muggle contraptions’ had been jealous of those who had managed to attend. Hermione, smirking, had even bet him that Lavender and Parvati would ask to attend the next Movie Night. He hadn’t asked his girlfriend if she planned to turn them down, or graciously allow them to come. Sometimes it was a bit scary to see how well Hermione could hold a grudge.

Harry sent a flock of birds to circle around the head of Ron, who was still sleeping, or trying to, so his friend wouldn’t have to rush through breakfast, then descended to the common room. Hermione wasn’t there yet, which was unusual - but maybe she was held back by her dorm mates hogging the bathroom. She had complained a few times about that.

“There he is!”

Harry’s attention was torn away from the stairs leading to the girls’ rooms to the gaggle of kids slowly, hesitantly surrounding him. First years, all of them, he realised - he had counted them often enough at the start of the year to make sure no one got lost. Smiling, he greeted them. “Good morning, everyone. What’s up?”

Mary-Ann Smitherson, the closest to a leader the first years had, swallowed, and took a step forward - or rather, from the way she glared back over her shoulder, she had been pushed forward by the students behind her. Smiling nervously, she faced him again. “Ah, Mister Potter, we, ah, we wanted to know if we could attend the next Movie Night!”

The little girl smiled at him with pleading, hopeful eyes, together with the rest of her yearmates. Only a heartless grump could have refused them. Harry wasn’t like Snape. “Of course you can!” He smiled at them, and when they started to cheer and hug each other, he felt great. What a way to start a day, making so many children happy!

“Mister Potter?”

A shy, hesitant question made him look to his side. There was the smallest, youngest second year in Gryffindor, Lisbeth Brown.

“Yes, Lisbeth?” He wasn’t about to tell her she should call him ‘just Harry’. That would have been a faux pas, implying far too much familiarity with someone not even in his year and classes.

“Can I and a few friends of mine attend too? I mean, I’d understand if that would be too many…” She trailed off, eyes downcast, lips pouting and trembling, and Harry just knew she’d go to her room and cry if he turned her down.

“Of course! Everyone who wants to come can come!”

“Thank you!” Lisbeth cheered up at once, beamed at him, then turned around and rushed to her older sister, Lavender, who apparently had just come down from her room. “He said everyone can come!” More cheering followed that declaration, and Lavender shot him a wide smile too.

“And I was wondering why Lavender and Parvati didn’t ask me about the Movie Night, but still hogged the bathroom longer than usual.”

Hermione must have come down herself while he had been talking to the kids, and contrary to everyone, she didn’t look very happy. Oh, she was smiling, but he could see it was rather forced. He didn’t understand for a moment, then he noticed the first and second years surrounding Lavender and Parvati.

“Oh.” He had been played.

“Yes, ‘Oh’.” His girlfriend’s eyes bored into his. “Would you care to tell me how we will manage to show a movie to the entire school with just a single TV?”

Harry was very glad that they were in public, and would remain so for several hours, more if he played it right, so Hermione couldn’t hex him. “Ah… I think I’ll write Sirius. Right after breakfast. What kind of equipment do you think we’ll need?”

The look she shot him made it clear that she was not about to forget this, but compiling a list - he was certain she had thought about it already - would let her calm down until they were in private. Hopefully.

*****

Albus Dumbledore looked over the latest reports from Aberforth. His brother in blood, if not by law. Not anymore. He didn’t dwell on that, not now. Aberforth’s friends had made some headway, identifying a recruiter for Voldemort, Finnegan Greenbrand. The wizard had hired so many of the local thugs, a number of people apparently thought he was planning to take over parts of Knockturn Alley. Mundungus had told Albus of rumors to that effect. The Headmaster didn’t think Voldemort was planning that, but he might use the opportunity to sow a bit more chaos to hide his activities from the law, and keep more Aurors busy. On the other hand, if some of the regulars in the alley felt threatened, they might fight Tom’s minions, putting a dent into his new recruits. They’d also season the surviving ones, but that would happen anyway with how they had been striking at shops.

More worrying was the report about a murder of a muggleborn in his home. The DMLE thought it was a thief who had stolen from the wrong person, but Mundungus hadn’t heard anything about someone hunting a thief down, and Albus’s friend paid a lot of attention to such rumors, lest he ended up dead himself at the hands of a vengeful victim. The old wizard wondered if the killers had been aware of the real reasons for the murder, or if they too had been told that this was revenge against a thief. The latter would indicate that Tom still didn’t feel secure enough to announce his real agenda to his new recruits.

The Headmaster shook his head. He couldn’t tell what was true, not yet. Not without more information. And there was that foolish law proposal Arthur had heard of. Nothing official yet, fortunately. He’d have to squash that proposal before it became public knowledge, or it would anger a lot of magical beings, and drive some of them into the waiting arms of Voldemort.

At least there was good news as well. Miss Granger, who was also - justified, to a degree - unhappy with the way Wizarding Britain worked, had been quite uncomfortable with donating her blood so he could set the wards. She had done it anyway, of course, as he had known the determined young witch would do. But he had seen no signs of her being familiar with the act, or used to it. That was a good thing. Many practitioners of the Dark Arts started with self-sacrificing rituals, getting used to hurt themselves for power, before starting to sacrificing others. Muggleborns seldom went down that particular path, but Miss Granger certainly was talented and driven enough to delve into the Dark Arts, and she hadn’t been raised in the magical World, and would not be aware of the true danger, of the allure of such magics. She wouldn’t be the first witch or wizard to think she could master what had led so many others to their doom. Albus knew that only too well.

And her Patron, Harry, was certainly not well-suited to teach her the dangers of that magic, having been raised in ignorance of such limits himself. Not for the first time, Albus wished Lily had chosen someone else to raise her son than her sister. Someone magical. Sirius, having been raised by and then having rebelled against his family, might have taught Harry and Miss Granger since his exoneration. Might. Albus would have to talk to Remus, to subtly raise his concerns about the Dark Arts, to make certain Miss Granger and Harry himself knew what spells and arts to stay away from.

Harry, Miss Granger and Mister Weasley were progressing well with their lessons in Occlumency, which was a mixed blessing. It meant the secret of Harry’s link to Voldemort, and the information gained through it, would be safe, and Harry would be protected from being influenced by it, but at the same time, it would be hard to tell if the young couple was about to tread on paths one should avoid. It also raised the question whether or not Albus should tell Harry of the prophecy that had shaped his life so cruelly. Until now, Albus had had the excuse of not being able to risk that secret, but with Harry’s mind protected against intrusions, that was no longer valid. Did he have the right to keep this from the young man? Harry had already been forced to grow up more than anyone else of his peers, save Miss Granger. Shouldn’t he be allowed to enjoy his last years at Hogwarts as carefree as possible? Although ignorance was not always bliss.

At least the ‘Movie Night’ had been an unqualified success, from what he had heard. The children were impressed and enamored of the movie. To see some of the best things muggle culture had to offer would do a lot to counter Tom’s propaganda. It wasn’t that much, but it was something.

*****

Pansy Parkinson felt torn between scorn and envy. Mostly envy though. Envy for the coup Potter had managed to land with his ‘Movie Night’, which was the topic every student was talking about, and almost every student wanted to attend next time, which had pushed Potter’s popularity at Hogwarts to new heights. Envy for those who had been at the first ‘Movie Night’ - judging by the snippets of information Pansy had overheard from the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, it had been a truly impressive experience. And envy for Susan Bones, who had managed to get quite close to Potter and his mudblood. If the gossip was correct, she had even arranged for a ménage à trois already. And of course Pansy felt quite the envy for those students who would be attending the next ‘Movie Night’, since it didn’t seem as if she would be able to. Not without alienating her own house.

And that was where the scorn she was feeling came from. Most of the Slytherins were outdoing each other in sneering at ‘muggle imitations of wizard pictures’ or at those students ’with such unrefined tastes as to enjoy such things’ - which, she expected, would cover the other three quarters of the school. And that haughty attitude meant that any Slytherin who was actually curious about those ‘movies’, like herself, couldn’t attend the next event without becoming a pariah in their own house. If it had just been Draco and his usual hanger-ons scorning this Pansy would have considered attending just to get a pretext to dump him earlier than planned, but as it was, she’d commit social suicide.

And yet… she was a Slytherin! There had to be a way to watch a movie with the blessing of her house. She had played Draco like a fiddle for years, after all, and if he was convinced, the rest of the house would fall in line - many of them had to be curious themselves, wanted to pursue Potter, or both. She just had to think of a way to sell it. By the time dessert appeared on the table - flaming cauldron cakes, honey brooms, and animated chocolate variations - she had found it.

Grabbing one of the honey brooms slowly flying around the table, she casually remarked to her nominal boyfriend: “I still can’t believe no one noticed that the so-called ‘muggle movie’ has to be magic.”

Draco interrupted his staring balefully at his nemesis - who didn’t even notice, as far as Pansy could tell - and turned his attention to her. “What do you mean?”

Pansy bit the tip of the broom handle off, then let the honey drip onto her tongue. “Mh. I mean, muggle things do not work at Hogwarts. Everyone knows that. Granger claims she found a way to make it work, but that has to be a lie.”

Draco was nodding. “Yes. She’s but a mudblood.”

“So, I assume once Ravenclaws who are not loony or friends of Potter see the movies, they’ll easily spot the spells used for this deception, and will expose the whole lie.”

Draco was nodding again, looking pensive. Pansy finished the broom handle, and chewed the soft bristles. She could see her so-called boyfriend’s line of thoughts. He’d imagine Potter and the mudblood getting exposed as frauds. There was the smile on his face. And now the frown when he realised that someone else would expose Potter, would be the one to reap the fame.

“One cannot trust the Ravens to spot such underhanded trickery. They are mere academics, after all. No, to expose this sham one has to be cunning, like a Slytherin,” Draco claimed, gazing at the Ravenclaw table.

“No Slytherins will lower themselves to watch Potter’s latest folly,” Pansy repeated Draco’s earlier words.

“I will do it. Potter will not fool me!” Draco declared, once again sneering at the Gryffindor table.

Pansy smiled adoringly at the fool. As the dutiful girlfriend, she’d of course attend with him. And if she was not mistaken, so would quite the number of other Slytherins. Greengrass among the first - the stupid witch would likely do anything to get close to Potter, not realizing that the path to Potter’s bed led through his mudblood. And Granger wouldn’t look kindly on Slytherins who had looked down on her for years.

Unless, of course, they were victims of Draco. Pansy smiled. If she pulled off the dumping of Draco correctly, Granger would see her as a victim, or a blood traitor, or both. Pansy might even pass muster as Potter’s pureblood wife. Not that she wanted to marry Potter, of course. She was not about to give up her chances to become Head of her family. But as the Patil sisters had demonstrated, Granger also was the best friend of Weasley. And he was a prize worth catching - pureblood, with a big and close and well-connected family, and quite rich thanks to the compensation for the basilisk corpse the Wizengamot had just granted. And with six siblings and not much of a family fortune, not too likely to even want to become the next Head of the Weasley family. Pansy summoned a cauldron cake into her hand and stole a glance over at Ron Weasley. She liked what she saw.

*****

“Those are the instructions. Don’t blow yourself up - I’d rather not have to replace another cauldron and brew more potions for the Infirmary. Begin.”

Ron Weasley thought that Potions had become both better and worse after Neville had reported Snape. Better in that Snape had been reined in by Dumbledore. The git’s remarks were back to biting sarcasm dripping with derision, instead of cruel personal attacks like those aimed at Neville. But while he didn’t say anything, his eyes were full of hatred and followed Ron and his friends, especially Harry, more often than not. In addition to that, Snape would scathingly criticize a student as soon as the slightest justification was found - and no one was spared from that. Potions was quickly becoming the single most hated subject in Hogwarts, even among Slytherins, in the weeks following Neville’s - or rather, Hermione’s - report.

As hard as it was to admit, seeing the snakes reduced to tears had quickly lost any novelty. Ron had thought for years he’d love to see the tables turned on the dungeon dwellers, but now that he had gotten his wish, it was not satisfying at all. He might even start to feel sympathy for them, due to that evil git of a teacher! Sympathy for Draco? Ron shuddered, almost messing up the next step for his potion. That would have been bad.

Snape hadn’t seen it, fortunately, he was busy criticizing Parkinson’s mise en place. The snake didn’t look like she’d start crying though, unlike Greengrass earlier. Ron caught a glance of the witch, and quickly looked away. Malfoy’s girlfriend staring at him like that gave him the creeps. Who knew what twisted thoughts went through the mind of a witch who loved Draco? He forced himself to focus on the brewing process again. He didn’t want to receive a detention from Snape, followed by a lecture from Hermione. He had plans for the evening, plans involving his girlfriend. The money for the basilisk had finally been paid out, and Ron had spent a bit of it on a nice necklace in Hogsmeade, which he had then enchanted with Hermione’s help. It wasn’t on par with the robes of his best friend, but would protect Padma from hexes - he knew competition inside Ravenclaw could get nasty. And it’d show Padma that he was no slouch at enchanting either.

Thinking of her reaction to his gift almost made him mess up another step of his potion. This time, Snape noticed.

*****

Her mind was behind a wall. An impenetrable, indestructible wall. Nothing and no one could penetrate it. Any attack would be absorbed, its energy used to strengthen the wall. Like the Betan plasma shields that defeated the Barrayarans. Her mind was a behind a shield. A force shield. Impenetrable. Adapting to any threat, like Borgs.

Hermione Granger felt sweat appear on her face, but ground her teeth. Her robe’s enchantments would remove it in an instant. Her head had been hurting for minute now, but she ignored the pain. She would protect her mind. Her thoughts. She’d master Occlumency.

Standing in front of her with his wand trained on her head was Sirius, visiting from Grimmauld Place to help out with their lessons. “Good, good, Hermione. You’ve been making progress. You don’t broadcast your lewd thoughts as much as you did last week.”

Hermione glared at him. He was trying to make her lose her concentration. He had done so before, in earlier lessons over the summer. She’d not fall for it again. Her mind was protected by an impenetrable shield.

“Oh, wow - that’s kinky. Does Harry know you’d like him to do that to you?”

Her mind was behind a wall, fending off all attacks. Attacks made her shield stronger. She’d not falter under the assault. She’d prevail. Not even Harry’s surprised yelp or Ron’s snickering made her break her own concentration. Nor the pain in her head.

Sirius was sweating too. The older wizard was going all-out, Hermione realised. She could feel his probes growing stronger, hitting her wall, her shield, glancing off, trying to find a weakness - or creating one. She had to absorb them, neutralize them, redirect them.

With a snarl she pushed back, hitting Sirius’s shields. And caught a glimpse of utter despair. Hopelessness, desperation, and so much pain... she recoiled, hearing someone whimper. Then realised it was herself.

Suddenly the pressure was gone, the wand lowered. Sirius was still staring at her though, and she met his gaze for an instant, before looking away.

“Hermione! Are you OK? Do we need to visit Pomfrey?”

Harry was at her side. Probably had broken off his own exercise with Remus - Professor Lupin. Hermione closed her eyes, breathing deeply, squeezing his hand.

“I am alright. Just a bit exhausted.” She smiled. “But I withstood him.”

Sirius, who looked as exhausted as she felt, nodded. “That you did. You’ve mastered Occlumency.” He smiled, though his eyes still looked concerned. And ashamed.

“There’s always room for improvement,” their DADA teacher cut in, “but you’ve reached a level where you’ll be able to fend off any intruder long enough to notice the attack, and defend yourself.”

“That’s what I said, just without so many words,” Sirius protested.

“As long as Sirius will not be able to discover my lecherous thoughts I am happy,” Hermione quipped, smirking at the reaction that got from Harry. Her Patron was staring at her for a moment, with his mouth open.

Sirius, of course, perked up: “Aha! I knew it!”

She stuck her tongue out at him in response, then conjured a seat to sit down in. She needed the rest. Harry’s godfather followed her example and summoned a bottle of water for himself. Muggle brand, Hermione noticed. The wizard had been drinking less alcoholic drinks lately, as far as she could tell. At least in their company. Who knew what he was drinking, and doing, with four Veela in his home?

Ron was up against Professor Lupin now, with Harry taking a break as well. Their friend was doing well enough, or so it seemed. Much better than at the start of the term. Harry handed her a can of Diet Coke, sat down next to her and opened a regular one for himself while glaring at his godfather. Sirius didn’t seem impressed, and simply grinned back.

Hermione drank half the can, then leaned into Harry. “I wonder… will you have another vision like the one you had, now that you’ve learned Occlumency?” She hoped not; it had almost cost him his life.

“I don’t know. I haven’t had such a vision since that day. And until now, my Occlumency has been mostly pants. Maybe it was a fluke.” Harry rubbed his scar. They knew it was the link to Voldemort - the pain it caused him in their first and second years when he had met Voldemort’s shades had shown that clear enough.

“The Headmaster seems to think you will have more visions.” Hermione took his hand, holding it, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Dumbledore’s not infallible, but he’s right far more often than not,” Sirius commented. He didn’t say, but his tone indicated, that he hadn’t forgotten that Dumbledore had been wrong about him. Terribly wrong.

“I just wish I knew what kind of curse created this scar! A Killing Curse, as most assume it was, doesn’t leave a scar. So why would it have caused one? I think it was a backlash of whatever protection your mother had created for you.” Hermione sighed. She hated not knowing something so important.

“I wish I knew. Lily’s notes didn’t survive that night, and she had kept things very close to her chest. I am not certain that even James knew all of what she had been doing.”

Sirius’s gaze seemed to get lost in his memories. Hermione suspected that whatever Lily had done had been… questionable. Effective, but probably illegal too. She didn’t voice that thought. Harry revered his mother, and Sirius sounded as if he had had a crush on the witch as well. Hermione liked to think Lily would approve of her, as a fellow true muggleborn, making her way in a pureblood society. And in love with a pureblood.

The young witch placed her hand on her boyfriend’s cheek and pulled his face towards her so she could kiss him tenderly. Sirius made wolf-whistling noises, but she ignored him. Harry was hers. She’d do anything, illegal or not, to keep Harry safe. And she was dead certain that Lily would approve of that.

*****

Sirius Black was sitting in the kitchen in his home, staring at the cup of tea Kreacher had placed in front of him. He was up earlier than he had expected, especially after the night he had had. His French guests had settled in quite well, in his opinion. The house felt full again. He might even have to visit Remus at Hogwarts to have a bit of peace and quiet. Or get up as early as today. As lovely as his guests were, they could be rather loud, if tempers ran high. But that was to be expected from passionate witches.

And oh, were they passionate! And lovely. Sirius was the luckiest wizard in Britain, he was certain of it. Much luckier than Remus, of course. He sighed, then sipped his tea. His friend was not doing well. He could have milked his tragic history to impress the Veela. Or played up his role as a teacher. Girls that age loved handsome teachers, even the overly serious ones like his friend. Laure had been clearly interested, and Eugénie probably as well. Instead Remus had talked about some muggle thing about werewolves and vampires, and moped.

Well, his loss was Sirius’s gain. Sort of. He’d be a terrible host if he let his guests be neglected, after all. And, if he said so himself, he had risen to the occasion, as usual. He truly was the luckiest wizard in Britain. So, why was he not feeling like it?

“Good morning.”

A quiet greeting interrupted his thoughts. Valérie d’Aigle had gotten up as well. The Veela was clad in a thin blue robe that barely reached her thighs and strained to cover her chest. Rather modest, compared to her cousins’ usual morning attire. It suited her.

“Good morning.” Sirius smiled at her, stood up up and pulled out a chair for his guest. Kreacher had already placed her favorite breakfast on the table. “I hope you slept well,” he added, with a wink.

Valérie blushed, and nodded. Quite fetching, in Sirius’s opinion.

“Your cousins are still asleep I take it?”

“Yes. They rarely get up before noon, unless they ‘ave to. Like yourself.” She grinned while grabbing a croissant.

“Even a wizard such as myself needs his rest,” Sirius answered.

“And yet you’ve been up this early. Despite a rather long and exhausting night.” She lifted her cup of coffee - a French vice, as far as Sirius was concerned - and took a sip.

Truth to be told, Sirius had planned to take a nap after breakfast, as Padfoot. He slept better in his other form. A relic from Azkaban. Not that he’d tell the pretty witch that. “Exhausting, but very enjoyable. At least I like to think so.”

“You’re not wrong.” The Veela finished her croissant, then her coffee. Peeling an orange with a quick spell, she waited for Kreacher to refill her cup. “Would you mind me asking a personal question?”

“You can ask anything of me!” Sirius grinned. “But some questions I cannot answer without violating the trust of a friend, or lover.”

“Are you ‘appy?”

“Who would not be happy, surrounded by you and your cousins?” Sirius smiled at his guest, and placed his hand on hers.

“Who indeed.” Valérie smiled at him, but Sirius had the impression she didn’t think he was happy. Her next comment confirmed his hunch. “Is it your nightmares?”

“I don’t know.” Sirius didn’t know why he had said that. Azkaban was the answer everyone accepted. He would have nightmares about that hellhole for the rest of his life.

Valérie didn’t say anything, just held his hand.

“I just feel like there’s something I am missing. And I don’t know what,” Sirius said, after a minute.

The two remained like that for a while, their breakfast forgotten.

*****

Arthur Weasley smiled after he had finished reading the parchment Percy had brought to his office. “Oh, yes. That’s the same style as in the copy of the proposal we have. Almost the same wording, actually. Where did you find this?”

His son smiled faintly. “It was buried in the archives of the Wizengamot. According to the information I got, this was a proposal that failed in the Wizengamot in 1970, after Greyback’s first public rampage.” He sighed. “I’d have found it quicker, but you told me to be very discreet, so I only searched when I had a legitimate reason to visit the archives.”

“You did well, Percy. We know now that Dolores Umbridge is behind this insane proposal. That will make it easier to bury it before the press gets wind of it.” Arthur smirked. “According to scuttlebutt the woman had an affair with Fudge 10 years ago, and our dear Minister’s wife took offense. Fudge was so eager to disprove the rumors, he moved Umbridge from his own office to Broom Regulatory Control.”

“That’s a dead end job.” Percy whistled. “And she was working closely with him before that?”

“About to become his new Undersecretary, actually, if the grapevine was correct. I heard she was so mad at Fudge and his wife, they had an extra Auror team as security for a month.”

“A witch scorned…” Percy trailed off. “Did she actually have an affair with Fudge, or did he destroy her career just to appease his wife?”

“I don’t know. But once he hears that Umbridge is behind this, he’ll see just how dangerous and disruptive the proposal is.” Arthur smiled cynically. Fudge would see reason because he feared his wife more than he craved Malfoy’s gold. Wizarding Britain truly had an outstanding Minister for Magic these days. He dreaded what would happen should another Dark Lord rise instead of the Death Eater remnants trying to cause trouble again. He pushed those dark thoughts away and grinned at his son. “You did well, Percy. I’ll inform the Headmaster, and then let’s celebrate with a pint or two. My treat.”

*****

Lord Voldemort studied the small, brown house at the corner of the road. For the residence of Ebenezer Renquirt, the Ministry’s foremost expert on Dementors, it looked rather drab. Appearances were deceiving, though - with expansion charms, a mansion’s worth of rooms could be hidden behind the facade of a tiny hut, after all. His own safe house had been enhanced like that by now.

The Dark Lord was more focused on finding out where the guards were hiding than architecture though. A wizard that was the key to Azkaban’s feared guards was certain to have better security than just wards, even if they were decently strong. He didn’t spot anyone suspicious though, and he had not detected any disillusionment spells or invisibility cloaks in the area. That meant they were likely inside. Macnair would be able to tell him, after his visit. The Executioner would be asking for more information about Dementors, in his professional capacity. As a pretext, of course - but any obscure information about the weaknesses and capabilities of Dementors could be very useful, should negotiations with the demons fail. Voldemort didn’t expect that to be the case, but it was better to be prepared for that outcome..

He passed the house and ducked into a side alley before apparating away, despite being disillusioned himself. It wouldn’t do to become careless now. Back in his safe house, he sat down in his most comfortable chair. He knew he had to be cautious. Even with his biggest enemy ignorant of his return, he had to be patient, to avoid making mistakes that could doom his plans. Once he broke his most faithful followers out of Azkaban, Dumbledore would be aware of his return.

He knew all that, and yet he wished he could right now free his most loyal Death Eaters, those who stood in defiance to the Ministry to the end, instead of leaving them imprisoned, suffering at the hands of inhuman creatures. If not for his mark they would have been broken, lost their minds and died there already. Even Bella, the strongest witch he knew.

Bella… how she had suffered, wasting away in a damp, cold cell, seeing her body, her beauty, decay, dying a bit more each day! And to think Wizarding Britain condemned him for his actions during the war!

He summoned a dark grimoire he had collected in his earlier travels. Once he had freed his followers, they’d need a lot of help to recover from their ordeal. Fortunately, this little gem contained rituals that would restore their strength, their health, and, in Bella’s case, their youth. If possible he’d take the wizards and witches guarding the prisoners with him - having them be sacrificed in those rituals would be a fitting punishment for their crimes.

*****

“Remus looks like he’s about to bite someone.”

Hermione Granger mumbled “Professor Lupin” out of reflex in response to Harry’s remark, even before she looked up at the Staff table in the Great Hall. Her boyfriend had been correct - the teacher looked so angry, the teachers sitting next to him seemed to hurry up their breakfast to get away without giving offense. And it wasn’t even close to the full moon yet.

“What’s up with him? Is he really that jealous of Viktor?”

Ron’s tone made it clear that he didn’t believe in the notion that Professor Lupin was in love with Nymphadora. Hermione agreed with her friend - it seemed far-fetched. The teacher was far older than the young Auror, and Sirius, who had proclaimed this, was not the most reliable source, with his love of pranks. In her opinion the reason for the wizard’s ire was quite clear. As was the target.

“Look at the front page of the ‘Daily Prophet’. A Ministry employee was fired for trying to rile up all magical beings in an attempt to cause trouble for the Minister after he had refused her advances.” Harry pointed at the article in question, which showed a witch leaving the Ministry, escorted by two Aurors.

Ron craned his neck. “Doesn’t look that bad. Better than his wife I’d say.” When Hermione glared at him he shrugged. “What? I am just saying, if he refused her, then it was because he knew she was not right in the head. Trying to cause a riot for getting scorned? That’s crazy!”

“Judging by how angry Remus looks, riots might still happen,” Harry commented. “He’s not exactly a hothead, and if he’s that furious…”

“Do you think that if Snape insults him now, Remus will hex him into a puddle?” Ron sounded hopeful, though the Potions Master was absent from the meal, as was often the case this year.

Hermione shook her head and renewed the privacy spell on their little corner. “I doubt it. And only werewolves who were outed would be likely to expose themselves by protesting or rioting.”

“There’s hags, vampires and goblins though. Merlin! If the Goblins revolt…” Ron read the article. “She was fired and fined. Maybe that’ll be enough to placate the money-grubbing little fiends.”

Hermione glared at him again. He was correct in that goblins openly admitted to crave gold, but there were less insulting ways to state that. “It’s quite unlikely that this will lead to a rebellion. All the rebellions in the past started after tensions had been high for quite some time, and with more important issues at stake.”

“Bill probably will have to dodge a few fireballs anyway. Fleur’s got a temper, and she already hated that she was not considered a pureblood in Britain.” Ron summoned a floating sausage and cut it into small pieces with a flick of his wand before it had reached his plate. “Do you think Sirius is in danger? He has four Veela in the house.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think they’d harm him. They seem quite fond of him.”

“Unless of course some of them think he is leading them on,” Hermione added.

“Sirius wouldn’t do that!” Harry defended his godfather.

“They’ve been ‘visiting’ for weeks now, and do not seem to plan on returning to France anytime soon,” Hermione noted.

Ron nodded. “Yeah. It looks pretty serious.”

Hermione and Harry groaned at the pun, intentional or not, Ron just had made. They were far, far too familiar with it.

“As long as he’s happy it’s alright,” Harry stated. “He deserves to be happy.”

Hermione swallowed what she had been about to say about that particular arrangement. She changed the topic instead. “I’ve figured out how to set up the generator Sirius sent. Once we finish the seating arrangements, we are good to go with the next Movie Night.” She glared slightly at Harry. “After Harry invited the whole school, we’ll have to creatively use expansion charms to ensure everyone has a seat close enough to the screen.” Figuring a way to achieve that had gotten her extra-credit in Charms. Professor Flitwick had been very impressed.

“Only a monster could have refused the eyes of those kids,” Harry muttered in response to her look. “Besides, you’d love the idea to show the whole school what muggles can do, if we hadn’t been tricked into it by your dorm mates.”

Hermione huffed. “Them tricking you caused a lot of work for me.”

“You like that sort of work.” Harry was smiling at her, and patting her knee. Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. She might like the challenge, but to have been outplayed by the gossip twins still smarted.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick studied the corpse in front of him carefully. The witch, Vivian Jenkins, had been tortured to death. Violated in her own home. That was the third case in two months. He ran his wand over the body, trying to catalogue the different curses used. More than two dozen different ones. Most of them more exotic and more brutal than the ones used on Brian Smith, the first victim of what the brass deemed a Knockturn Alley power struggle between thieves.

Kenneth himself wasn’t quite convinced that was the case. Sure, they had found stolen goods hidden in all three flats, but none of the victims had had prior convictions nor known ties to other criminals. It was not impossible that they had been very skilled thieves, evading the DMLE’s attention until a competitor caught up with them, but something felt off there. He just couldn’t put a finger on what was wrong with the case.

Bertha Limmington, his partner, was currently showing a rookie Auror the ropes of analyzing a crime scene. The rookie was cute witch, he noticed, and she had not lost her breakfast upon seeing the corpse. Tougher than most new kids.

He stood up and walked over to them, smiling widely. “Hi there. I am Kenneth Fenbrick, Bertha’s partner.”

“Nymphadora Black-Tonks.”

Kenneth recognized the name. No wonder she was not shaken up by the sight of a corpse, not after fighting in a small war in Bulgaria and seeing dozens of corpses. Probably killed a number herself. Almost a veteran. Almost but not quite. Aurors were more than Hit-Wizards. The Auror smiled and gestured to the corpse. “Check it out, then give us your impression.”

The rookie shot him a glance that showed she knew what he was doing, but she went and knelt down next to the body, and ran her wand over it. After a few minutes, she stood up again. Kenneth had expected her to look at least a bit paler but she looked exactly the same as before.

“At least six different wands were used, and two dozen different curses, none of them fatal. The victim died due to internal bleeding and shock from having much of her skin burned off.” Her voice wavered a bit - so she wasn’t quite as numbed to such sights than the old guard who had lived through the last war. Good poker face though.

Bertha took it from there and corrected the witch on a number of points, but Kenneth flashed her a smile. “Good work for your first time. Most vomit over the body.”

Her answering smile was grateful, but not that grateful as to suggest there was a chance to get to know each other better. It wasn’t a big deal - there were plenty of witches who were fond of Kenneth. Some even might know a bit more about what was going on in the Alleys these days.

*****

Draco Malfoy carefully kept his expression from showing anything but boredom, even though he was outraged at seeing barbaric muggle contraptions in Hogwarts and eager to expose Potter as a fraud. But he was a Malfoy, a born politician, and Malfoys did not announce their plans before their curses had hit their enemy in the back.

This so-called ‘Movie-Night’ was held in an old classroom, not in the Great Hall, as Draco had feared when it had been announced. To defile the Great Hall like that… As they got closer he noticed that Weasley served as a door guard - a fitting task for the lout. The redheaded blood traitor was glaring at Draco as soon as he spotted them, and even drew his wand. As if a Malfoy would lower himself to brawl like a mudblood in the hallways. As disgusting as it was, this was a social occasion, and Draco knew his manners.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Weasley stared at him, and at the other Slytherins behind Draco.

“We’re here to ‘watch a movie’, isn’t it obvious?” Draco raised his eyebrow in mock-surprise. Pansy nodded, a bit too eagerly and enthusiastic, in Draco’s opinion, but he couldn’t chide her in public.

“Make any trouble, and you’ll get thrown out. We won’t let you ruin the event for everyone.”

With that arrogant pronouncement, the blood traitor let them pass. Draco didn’t like turning his back to any Weasley - their tempers were stronger than their manners, no self-control to speak of - but Vincent and Gregory would cover his back soon enough.

The interior of the classroom had been expanded with charms - a lot. Potter must have asked Dumbledore himself to help him fit so many students into the room. One side of the room had not been expanded though, so everyone ended up sitting quite close to the linen sheet Potter’s mudblood had used to cover that wall. He didn’t detect any spells on it so far, but they’d do that once the lights dimmed, so their tricks were harder to spot. He knew Potter’s father and godfather had been infamous for their pranks and other attacks against Draco’s house, and had seldom been caught, so Potter would be hard to catch as well. Blood would tell, after all.

Snacks and drinks started to float by the seats, and Draco grabbed a couple for himself, and for Pansy. He skipped the weird white things, but Pansy tried some of that ‘popcorn’. His girlfriend really was losing her touch lately, to try such questionable food in public. He’d have to ensure no one would spread rumors about her having a fondness for muggle filth after that - it would damage his own reputation.

The former classroom was filling up quickly. Most of the students seemed to be present, or so Draco guessed. Among them were a surprisingly large number from his own house, his own year even. Greengrass was no surprise, everyone knew she hoped to marry Potter, and where she went, her friends would follow. But the others? Draco would have to find out why exactly some of them were here. Nott and Zabini, for example. Would either of them try to upstage Draco? They’d fail, of course, but they could hinder his own plans.

Potter standing up in front of the sheet - the ‘screen’, as he called it - interrupted Draco’s thoughts. His rival was explaining what an ‘animated movie’ was - a crude copy of wizarding pictures, as Draco had known already - and how long it would take, and that the movie was fictional. Draco didn’t really pay that much attention to the Gryffindor, he was trying to spot the magic Potter would be using. Then the lights dimmed, and the movie started.

90 minutes later, Draco realised he had been so distracted by this… display… that he had failed to note just what magical trickery was behind it. But the story of a lion cub reclaiming the birthright that had been stolen from him had just been too enthralling. If he didn’t know better, and wasn’t wearing his enchanted robes, he’d assume he had been the victim of a spell. It must have been a kind of magic though - everyone knew muggle technology didn’t work at Hogwarts, and no one could do something like this without magic.

“Wasn’t that great, Draco?” Pansy gushed.

A bit earlier she had even cried. Cried over a muggle animal picture! Draco was taken aback, and even more so when he realised that even Vincent and Gregory had been affected in a similar way.

“I suppose it was not quite as awful as I had feared,” Draco stated, “but I’ll have to study the next ‘movie’ more carefully, to find out how they are doing this.”

*****

“You wanted to talk to us, Headmaster?” Harry Potter asked, after he, Hermione and Ron had sat down in Dumbledore’s office.

“Yes, I did, Harry.” Dumbledore sounded and looked quite serious - concerned. Harry exchanged a brief look with Hermione.

“Were there complaints about the ‘Movie Night’? We’ve shown ‘The Lion King’ again so no one would feel left out, and it’s a good movie, so watching it twice shouldn’t have been a problem for those who had already seen it.”

“It is not about that, rest assured. It was a wonderful movie, by the way. I enjoyed it very much.” Dumbledore smiled at the three teenagers. Harry didn’t remember seeing the Headmaster among the spectators, but it would have been easy for him to slip inside undetected.

“Thank you, sir. We hope ‘Star Wars”’ will have an equally good reception. He ignored Hermione whispering: “Who’s this ‘we’ you speak of?” and smiled at the old wizard.

Dumbledore nodded, but sighed again. “I have called you here for something else though. Something of the utmost importance - and secrecy. It is only the fact that you have learned Occlumency that allows me to divulge this secret to you without risking far too much.”

“Sir, if it is so important, wouldn’t it be better if you kept it to yourself?” Ron spoke earnestly.

Hermione, as expected, looked like she was about to disagree with Ron’s opinion. Vehemently. Fortunately, Harry’s girlfriend wouldn’t make a scene in front of Dumbledore. Or not too much of a scene. Before she could voice her thoughts though, Dumbledore answered Ron.

“It might be safer, and easier for everyone here if you were left in ignorance, but it wouldn’t be right,” Dumbledore said, with conviction evident in his tone. “I am talking about the real reason for Voldemort’s attack on you and your family, Harry.”

Hermione and Ron gasped, and Harry held his breath. This was the first time he heard of this. All he had known so far was that Voldemort had attacked his parents because they had been fighting him, and very effectively.

“Before you were born, Harry, a prophecy was made, foretelling that a boy would be born with the power to defeat the Dark Lord. A spy overheard part of the prophecy and informed Voldemort. The Dark Lord decided to kill the two boys the prophecy fit - you and Neville Longbottom. That was why your parents went into hiding under the Fidelius, and why Voldemort attacked them and you, after Pettigrew had betrayed them.”

Neither Harry nor his friends were saying anything. All three of them were listening, almost frozen in their seats. Hermione had gripped Harry’s hand and was squeezing it in a silent attempt to support him. It didn’t help that much.

“I know it must be a shock to you, and I had considered not telling you, but with Voldemort having returned, I do not think you would be happy if you were left in ignorance.” Dumbledore slowly stood and turned to the door leading to his quarters. “I’ve prepared a memory in my pensieve, showing the full prophecy.”

*****

Lord Voldemort, in his disguise as Finnegan Greenbrand, was not quite as familiar with the disreputable bar he was currently in as most of its regulars. However, thanks to frequent visits he knew the faces of those regulars themselves quite well, and when they started to disappear and the scantily-clad waitresses and waiters started to take breaks en masse, he knew something was up. It didn’t take a genius such as him much to see the differences between those wands for hire who were carousing, and those who just faked it. He didn’t know if they were here for him or for someone else, but he would have to assume he was the target.

Dropping a few sickles on the table, he stood up as well and started for the door. He hadn’t even reached it before four wizards and a witch at another table pulled out money themselves. Amateurs. That they didn’t start cursing in the bar itself, where apparition was not possible due to the wards, told him there was an ambush ahead. For an instant he considered simply continuing outside, and lay waste to whoever dared to waylay him. It had been too long since he had unleashed his might in battle, and annihilated his enemies. For too long had he been reduced to skulking around in shadows.

But he controlled himself. His vengeance would come, in due time. If he gave this bunch of thugs who dared attacking him the death they deserved, he’d have to eliminate all witnesses if he wanted to keep Greenbrand from becoming known as a very powerful wizard - and such an act would attract a lot of attention from the DMLE. So instead of opening the door, he sealed it and the windows with a flick of his wand, then turned around, his cruel smile briefly freezing the five cowards behind him. It was enough to let him turn to the table where a group of wizards he had previously hired and put on retainer were drinking. Their leader, a young man from an impoverished pureblood family, met his eyes and Voldemort noticed he had his wand out already. Promising indeed.

Pointing at the five ambushers, now standing in the middle of the room, and just realizing they had been caught, he said: “Double the standard rate, alive.”

The fight that followed didn’t take longer than a minute, not with Voldemort destroying the protections on the assailants’ robes with a few silent spells while appearing to simply take cover.   
Standing up and making a slight show of dusting himself off, he smiled, dropping gold on the table. “There’s bound to be a few more ruffians outside, gentlemen, likely ready to storm inside. I do not need those alive, just taught a lesson.”

Drunk on their success, the thugs rushed to the door almost faster than he could cancel his sealing spell. The first to rush out was the first to go down, but the smarter wands in the pub had used his unwitting sacrifice to spot the positions of the attackers and started to curse them from the windows. Voldemort used the time to tear down the anti-portkey wards on the place - the owner would blame the attackers - and then drop a portkey on the captives.

They disappeared at once and he noticed an older witch standing up from where she had taken cover behind the bar during the battle. Noticed, and recognized her. Not many witches wore robes that were designed to show such scars. It had to be Lucrecia Browtuckle, a veteran from the Grindelwald War. He met her eyes, then looked at the door, where a few wizards were starting to get ready for a sally.

The witch laughed at his silent offer. “Lad, I do not take part in the brawls of boys and girls whose parents were not even born when I was earning my first scars in war.” She filled a glass with the bar’s finest whiskey and toasted him with a smirk before tossing the liquor back.

Voldemort bowed in response. Both he and Greenbrand could respect that.

*****


	19. Yuletide

**Chapter 19: Yuletide**

After watching Trelawney sprout the Prophecy, Harry Potter pulled his head out of the pensieve and shook his head. He felt like jumping up and pacing. Or hitting something. Hermione ran her hand over his back in circles, and leaned into his side. It helped, a bit, and he took a deep breath.

“So that’s how she sounds when she makes a prophecy,” Hermione mused.

Dumbledore nodded at Harry’s girlfriend. “Yes. I gather she is quite different when she teaches divination.”

“She told us that Divination gave vague results, hunches and hints, not predictions of the future.” Hermione looked at the Headmaster, not quite stating her question outright. She had abandoned the course, Harry knew, the less than precise nature of the discipline not agreeing with her nature, but she remembered the lessons well, as one could expect her to.

“She made a prophecy, which is, while somewhat similar, not part of Divination. A prophecy is always true, although it may be somewhat ambiguous,” Dumbledore explained.

“Somewhat. All it states is that Harry has the power to kill Voldemort.” Hermione sounded calm, but Harry knew she was tense, agitated even, under that facade.

“And that he and Voldemort are destined to fight.”

“Which was a given after Harry defeated him as a baby. No Dark Lord can let such a defeat stand.” Hermione’s arm around Harry’s waist tightened, possessively. It felt good.

“Indeed, Miss Granger. As soon as Voldemort decided to attack the Potters, the prophecy had become true, in a certain way. If James and Lily had defeated Voldemort, they would have qualified as the power the Dark Lord knew not. If Harry had died it would have been impossible to prove or disprove that he could have defeated Voldemort. And now, with both alive, and Harry being famous as Voldemort’s vanquisher, a new confrontation, direct or not, is all but inevitable.” Dumbledore led them back to his office, past the still slightly disconcerting view of his magical quarters with a seemingly endless display of floating books and knick-knacks - or artifacts. “One might say he already started it, with his attacks during the tournament.”

Harry had felt Hermione twitch and pull him even closer to her when Dumbledore had mentioned his possible death at the hands of Voldemort, just as he knew he had tensed when his parents’ deaths had come up. He pulled the young witch into his lap when he sat down in front of the Headmaster’s desk again. He still didn’t know how he felt, how he should react to this revelation. To be fated to face the Dark Lord…

“Why would the prophecy still matter, if Voldemort will attack Harry anyway to avenge his first defeat?”

“He doesn’t know the full prophecy. As long as he remains ignorant of the second part, he will wonder and worry about it.” Dumbledore summoned a lemon drop from the bowl on his desk, then frowned at Fawkes, who seemed to act particularly innocent.

“So, it’s merely bait, and a tool in psychological and information warfare then?” Hermione asked, in a way that told Harry she really wanted Dumbledore to say yes. He wanted the same - he could deal with Voldemort wanting to kill him. But to be the subject of a prophecy, a puppet of fate? That was something truly disturbing.

“I wish I could say yes, Miss Granger, but prophecies are more than that. Often not much more - but the Department of Mysteries collects them all, in the aptly named ‘Hall of Prophecies’, where they are waiting to be revealed to those they concern and address.”

Harry closed his eyes. He was his own man, not a tool of whatever power was responsible for this prophecy! It was just a vague self-fulfilling proclamation anyway. He would decide his fate himself.

He opened his eyes. Hermione and Dumbledore hadn’t said anything else, waiting for him to finally say something, react in any way, he realised. Neither seemed about to ask how he felt though, not here in any case. Hermione would, of course, once it was just the two of them. “If he should not hear about the prophecy, wouldn’t it be best to destroy the recordings of it?”

“I wish it was possible, Harry. The extracted memory of it is easily vanished - and retrieved from my mind, should we need it. But the recording in the Hall of Prophecies is protected. The hall was built with the goal to prevent people from suppressing a prophecy in an attempt to manipulate events.” Dumbledore spread his hands. “Of course, by controlling who has access to the hall, one controls who knows of a prophecy. A fact certainly taken into due consideration when the hall was built.”

“Would it really be impossible to destroy the recording there?” Harry asked, his scepticism obvious to everyone.

“Not impossible, but the effort needed would be daunting. It would be more advisable to set a trap for anyone going after the recording there. Only those mentioned in the prophecy can access it, so Voldemort would have to visit the department in person.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Dumbledore held up one hand to stop her. “The Department of Mysteries is well protected against the means he can use to disguise himself. Even better than Gringotts, Miss Granger.”

Harry’s retainer wasn’t about to concede the point so easily though. “He found ways around the security of the tournament too.”

“Indeed, he did. But we have learned our lessons as well, and I will take more strident measures to improve the security of the Hall of Prophecies.”

“Will you be working with the Unspeakables?”

Hermione couldn’t keep the fascination from her question. Harry knew she had been intrigued by the rumors of what exactly that department did, and what its halls contained. It was no surprise, given her great love of knowledge.

“Of course.” Judging by the small smile playing over the Headmaster’s face, he too knew of Hermione’s desires.

The young witch merely nodded, not asking further. Harry could feel her squirming though, and tense up - the thought of so much knowledge hidden away in an attempt to control it, if one trusted the rumors, made her mad.

“Thank you for trusting us with this, Headmaster. I will need some time to come to terms with what you have revealed,” Harry stated, gently pushing Hermione off his lap. The witch slid off at once, no doubt as eager as he was to discuss the topic in private.

“Of course, Harry. I am sorry to heap this burden on you, but I felt you deserved to know.”

“You are right, Headmaster.” Harry bowed slightly, then left the office with Hermione in tow.

*****

As soon as the two had reached ‘their room’, Hermione Granger sealed the door and cast a series of privacy spells while Harry summoned two cans of cola. The young witch was more shaken by the revelation of the prophecy than she had let on, or hoped she had let on. To think that there might be something like fate, destiny, or even worse, a timeline that could not be changed… the implications were horrifying! She grabbed her can as it floated over, and sat down next to Harry.

“How do you feel about this?” Harry asked, right before she could ask him, and opened his own can.

“I don’t know,” she answered, truthfully. “I can’t really imagine that you can predict the future like this. Or rather, I do not want to imagine that.”

Harry didn’t look surprised by her words. “I know. It’s one thing to fight him, it’s another to be fated to.”

“Yes. If there is such a thing as destiny, or a timeline set in stone, what is with free will?” Why bother to struggle, to learn, if you’re just following the rails laid down by time? Hermione didn’t want to, but couldn’t help ask herself that.

“What would the Doctor say?” Harry asked. He looked calm, but after four years with him, Hermione could spot the signs betraying his emotions.

“The pattern can be changed.” It was just a TV series, although a good one.

“That’s not what the Greeks thought about prophecies.” It figured that he remembered that part.

“Most of their prophecies were very vague. Like ours.” She looked at him, daring him to claim this was not their, but his burden to bear. He didn’t.

“I’d say ‘neither can live while the other survives’ is not that vague.” Harry finished his can and crumpled it, then threw it up in the air. He had drawn his wand and vanished it before it reached the ground.

“It’s rather vague, open to many interpretations. What does ‘living’ and ‘surviving’ mean in this context?” Hermione shrugged. “As the Headmaster said, it could already have been fulfilled. And he said that prophecies are often not much more than words given context by others.”

“He didn’t say that.”

“It’s what he meant.” Hermione finished her own drink. She would pay for it later, with troubles falling asleep, but then - after today’s events, she’d have trouble sleeping anyway. At least they’d have a patrol, which would tire her out a bit.

“I think he hinted at it being a bit more than just a self-fulfilling prophecy.” Harry wasn’t giving up. Just like herself, Hermione knew, he couldn’t let go of a problem and accept the comforting semi-truth, or straight lie.

“Maybe a prophecy is just a form of Divination, the result of some insight into the subjects of the prophecy. Trelawney subconsciously realised that Voldemort would attack any such threat, and therefore it would be coming true.” She was reaching, Hermione knew, but she wanted an explanation that would not tear at her worldview of humans being self-determined.

“That means someone is able to see into our minds, no matter our Occlumency.”

“Someone, or something.” Magic, Hermione thought, but didn’t say it.

“I could live with Magic being able to read minds and souls, and forming prophecies from such insight.” Harry reached out to her, and Hermione slid into his lap, leaning against him. His idea didn’t feel right, or not completely correct, but maybe this time, she and Harry would settle for the comforting half-truth or hypothesis.

After a while spent simply being there for each other, Harry’s watch started ringing softly. “It’s time for the patrol,” he said with a wry smile.

Hermione sighed, but stood up. While her robe straightened itself, she ran a cleaning spell over the room, watching as dust was gathered in a small ball, which she then vanished.

“Parvati asked in the latest prefect meeting if ‘non-prefects’ are allowed to come along on patrols,” Harry said a bit too casually.

Hermione grinned. If the stupid witch thought she could spend hours alone with Harry, trying her charms-enhanced wiles on him, just because she was a prefect, then she had to think again. “I checked the rules. It’s all covered.”

“That’s what I said, and what the head boy and girl agreed with.” Harry started towards the door.

“I bet she sulked for the entire meeting.” Hermione looked around a last time, to check that her spell had not missed anything, then joined him.

“You know her. Better than I do.” Harry let her open the door as her Patron.

“Yes.” And Hermione’s presence, walking a step behind the two, behind Parvati, on those patrols would ensure that that would not change. Just like she liked it.

*****

Voldemort withdrew his mental probes and let the wizard he had been holding up with a levitation spell drop to the ground. A Silencing Spell cut off the man’s whimpering. The Dark Lord had wrecked his captive’s mind, as he had done with the minds of the others who had tried to ambush him, but he had gained the information he had sought. The man behind this attack was not Dumbledore, but Darrin Stanson, a low-life delusional enough to think that he was the ruler of Knockturn Alley.

Voldemort looked at the drooling, trembling remains of his captives, all laid out on the floor in the cellar of his safehouse. If those were the best Stanson could muster, then he was not even an annoyance, but a mere nuisance. And yet such a slight had to be answered. No one could attack the Dark Lord and get away with it!

He drew his wand and ended the lives of his captives with five quick killing curses, then vanished the corpses before returning to his study. Dealing with Stanson would be another fine test for his hopefuls, and would cement the DMLE’s impression that this was just a struggle between criminals. With a bit of planning, it would appear that at least a few of Stanson’s men escaped, which would make it possible to keep the gang war cover up a bit longer. And it would serve to weed out the kind of weak fools like the ones he had just disposed of from his own forces. Or at least identify them, so he’d not trust them with anything important.

If only he had more of the experienced mercenaries at his disposal! Like Lucrecia Browtuckle. But witches and wizards like her were cunning, and wouldn’t join at the rates Greenbrand could offer, at least not the rates he could offer without tipping people off that he was more than a criminal with some ambitions. But once the war was about to begin in earnest… he’d have to look Browtuckle, and others like her, up. If they would not hire on with him, then he’d have to make sure they’d not join his enemies.

But that was a matter for another day. He had a more pressing, more important task to achieve. Macnair would have met Renquirt. The executioner had been tasked with finding found out all of the protections of the home of the Ministry expert on Dementors.

Smiling cruelly, the Dark Lord settled down to wait for Macnair to contact him. He’d not tolerate failure.

*****

“My friend identified the wizard who has been hiring wands as Finnegan Greenbrand. He apparently tries to downplay his skills, but he was observed sealing a tavern off while casting silently. He’s a powerful wizard.”

Meeting Aberforth in Albus’s own office was less aggravating than in the Hog’s Head, the Headmaster thought. Less costly too. It was not less painful though. With some people, Albus would have loved if they stuck to the topic of a meeting. With his brother, the complete absence of any small talk hurt. “Thank you. Do you know who tried to kill him?”

“Those fools were hired by Darrin Stanson, the owner of the ‘Dancing Mermaid’. A brothel.”

Albus summoned a lemon drop for himself. There were fewer left than there should be. He knew Aberforth would not take anything from him, so Fawkes must have found a way around the spells on his bowl again. Sometimes the phoenix’s ability to travel through all sorts of wards and spells was not as much of a boon as it seemed to. “Was Greenbrand moving against Stanson?”

Aberforth shook his head. “Not to my friends’ knowledge. But he’ll be paying him back for the attack. He’s that kind of wizard.”

“Like…”

“Yes.”

He could test that, Albus knew. If it was not Tom, he’d be easy to handle. And if it was, he might still get surprised. On the other hand, the Dark Lord would be expecting another attack, and if Dumbledore was involved, Tom would know he was compromised. And if Dumbledore was not involved, it would just lead to a lot of good wizards and witches dying.

Aberforth interrupted his thoughts. “Will you set Stanson and Greenbrand up so they decimate each other’s forces?” His casual tone hid the accusation Albus knew was levelled against him well.

The Headmaster didn’t meet his brother’s eyes. “I would suggest your friends should not get involved in that particular conflict.” With a bit of help, the conflict could bleed both Voldemort’s forces and the kind of thugs that made Knockturn Alley such a desolate place to live in.

His brother scoffed. “You never change, do you?”

“Stubbornness runs in the family,” Albus responded with a mild voice.

The old wizard flinched. Barely, but he did. “Anything else my friends should not get involved with?”

“Dolores Umbridge.”

“No chance of that. My friends do not rub shoulders with that kind of scum. They have standards.”

Albus didn’t know if Aberforth meant the Ministry, or the kind of bigots Umbridge was now seeking out. He didn’t ask, just nodded as his brother stood up. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for those who will suffer if another of your schemes goes wrong.”

With that parting shot, the old innkeeper threw the floo powder into the fire, mumbled “Hog’s Head”, and left.

Albus stared at the fire until it returned to its natural color. He felt more alone than ever, despite Fawkes rubbing his head against the Headmaster’s cheek and trilling softly in his ear.

*****

Nymphadora Black-Tonks, wearing the face and body of a courtesan who was currently enjoying a very spontaneous vacation in the Mediterranean with one of her gentlemen, passed through the lounge of ‘The Nightingale’. The club near Diagon Alley catered to the rich and prided itself on its discretion. Even a pariah like Dolores Umbridge would not be refused entry there - and according to rumours, she had been seen there. Rumours, of course, that came from a source very unwilling to risk their membership in said club to confirm them, so it had fallen to the young metamorphmagus to investigate.

Nymphadora had expected those kind of assignments when she applied as an Auror. The DMLE was not in the habit to waste someone with her talents on assignments anyone with a wand could do. But the political aspects of her task - she had been made to understand that she was to find a reason to arrest the witch so the magical beings her proposal had riled up could be placated - didn’t sit well with her. Even though Umbridge really deserved it, for what she had caused.

Not that Nymphadora thought Umbridge would actually be found in the club. The former Ministry employee was a shrewd and connected witch, and despite some rumors, wouldn’t have been reduced to join the courtesans working in the club. Nor would she, as Nymphadora’s superior had speculated, be trying to use that as a cover to approach others she had leverage over. There were better ways to conduct blackmail. Nymphadora had said so to her superior, but she had been told that the minister had taken a personal interest in ‘the case’, and so any lead had to be looked into, no matter how implausible. At least no one would blame her when it didn’t pan out.

Nymphadora smiled at an older wizard who invited her at his table, stated that she was waiting for a gentleman, and took a seat at the bar. In a few hours an apology from the client would arrive, with the appropriate compensation. The setup meant she would be able to spend the evening in the lounge without getting bothered too much or coming under suspicion. It might even be interesting.

The metamorphmagus was quite surprised when she did spot Umbridge enter the lounge a few hours later and head to the bar. Even more so when the disgraced but at least physically attractive witch took care to greet Trevor Fickleton on the way. The esteemed member of the Wizengamot returned her greeting, and Nymphadora wondered if he was just being polite, or under some form of pressure - according to rumours, Umbridge knew a lot of secrets others did not want to be revealed. Of course, she could just be getting back at a former ally, and trying to taint his reputation by her presence.

Privacy charms prevented the Auror from listening in to the brief conversation. Not even her enchanted earring could penetrate them. But at least she had found another lead.

*****

Voldemort almost felt nostalgic, standing in the bookstore in the poorer part of Diagon Alley. He had found a number of truly rare tomes here, back when he had just graduated Hogwarts and had started his rise to power. The store lacked the selection of illegal works the shops in Knockturn Alley offered under the table, but a discerning wizard could still find exotic tomes here that the Ministry would ban in a heartbeat, were it aware of them. Like this translation of an Ottoman book on the Nizari Ismailis, the mysterious magical assassins, which he was skimming through through while waiting for Renquirt to arrive. Just another customer browsing around.

Sadly, Macnair had reported that the protections Renquirt had at his home were just a bit too good. Not good enough to stop Voldemort, of course. But good enough to make it very plausible that such an intrusion would be discovered. Fortunately, as the Dark Lord had found out, Renquirt was a connoisseur of rare books and knew this gem of a store. And the wizard knew that walking in with an Auror security detail would not be conductive to be allowed back inside, much less receive notices of newly arrived books of interest - the owner was very opinionated about censorship. Not opinionated enough to move to Knockturn Alley though.

That wouldn’t mean the Ministry expert would be without guards. Just that they would not follow too closely, or too openly. Which wouldn’t prevent what Voldemort had planned.

The door chimed, and there was Renquirt. The older wizard went straight to the sales clerk. Voldemort was close enough to listen in without any magical help.

“Hello. I was informed that you have acquired an original edition of Des Moines’ ‘Of Spirits and Demons’”.

Renquirt was displaying the lack of social graces so common to the more inverted Ravenclaws. Voldemort almost shook his head. Some things seemed to never change.

The clerk winced - with good cause. The Dark Lord had purchased that book earlier. Re-purchased, actually. After all, he had arranged for its sale to the shop through a straw man in the first place. It wasn’t as if Lucius had ever read the book. A minor charm had then ensured that contrary to his instructions, the clerk would not hold the book for Renquirt.

“I am sorry, sir, but the tome was already sold.”

The clerk cringed even. Weak. Probably a mudblood. Easy to manipulate - it had not taken much to find out about Renquirt’s arrangement with the shop either.

“What?” Renquirt gaped at the wizard. “I had ordered to hold that tome for me!”

“Oh!” Voldemort cut in. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ve purchased it, but I wasn’t told it was reserved.” He smiled, as if he was embarrassed about the whole mix-up. Renquirt turned towards him and Voldemort bowed before the expert could say anything. “Martin Steinmaur, at your service.”

“Ebenezer Renquirt. I had ordered that book, but this imbecile forget to put it aside!” The older wizard glared at the mudblood. “Would you part with it? I have been looking for that book for years.”

Voldemort smiled - he hadn’t known that, just that the book was on the long list the wizard had deposited at the shop. That would facilitate his plan. “Well, I would, but I am working on a treatise on such demons - we lack them on the continent, you know - and I believe this book might help me gain a perspective on them that is not yet covered by the standard literature available here.” It wouldn’t - he had perused it quite diligently, and had not found anything that he hadn’t known before. With a bit of fake hesitation, he went on. “But I could loan it to you, if you only need to read it once.”

The way Renquirt’s eyes lit up, he understood that this was an offer to let him break the spells on the tome that prevented its duplication. It was quite illegal, of course - if everyone did that, no publisher could stay in business and there would be no more new books released. Or so the publishers claimed, and they had convinced the Wizengamot of that. And yet, at least in Voldemort’s time, House Ravenclaw had held regular lessons in how to break such charms - and restore them afterwards, to cover up. The clerk understood the offer as well, but he was hardly in a place to protest, not after his apparent blunder.

“What a coincidence! I am the foremost experts of Dementors. If you would like, I could check your work.” Renquirt smiled, although rather patronizingly.

Voldemort eagerly nodded. He was showing his real, new face, which was a bit of a risk, but he didn’t plan on doing anything illegal, and a potion had provided him with a long beard. Together with a haircolor charm and thick glasses, it should provide enough of a disguise. No one would expect the Dark Lord to be a wizard in his 20s anyway. His voice sounded eager and overjoyed as he answered. “You are? I mean, that is a very generous offer!”

A few minutes later Voldemort left the shop with an invitation to visit Renquirt. The name he had used belonged to a graduate of Durmstrang, who had turned mercenary recently enough so it wouldn’t be in his records, and so would pass the check the security detail of his future host would run. And the slightly illegal offer he had made would ensure that no Auror would witness their discussion. Afterwards, he would easily disappear, to hide any trace.

The Dark Lord smiled, wandering through the streets as if he truly was a visitor from the continent taking in the sights. Like so many other academics Voldemort had known, Renquirt had looked quite eager to show off his superior knowledge to a fellow scholar. Who knew - maybe he wouldn’t even have to cast an Imperius on the man to find out what he needed to free his followers.

*****

Sirius Black wished that this Umbridge was visiting his house, just so he could strangle her with her own entrails and claim self-defense. That stupid, thrice-cursed witch and her damned bigotry had almost driven his lovely guests back to France. He shivered, remembering the morning - or rather, noon - of the day the Daily Prophet had broken the story behind her proposed reclassification law.

_Valérie, who had become less shy with each day as his guest, had stolen the newspaper before he had had the chance to read it, and had been browsing the society pages when she suddenly had started to curse in French, in a voice that went from melodious to furious to screeching. Then she had sprouted feathers and transformed. Sirius had been so captivated by the magnificent sight of a Veela in her avian form - a truly magical moment - he had not realised the danger he was in, until the Veela had dropped the newspaper and fireballs had appeared in her hands - talons. He had understood, in that moment, why James had so often been staring, enthralled, instead of running when a prank of theirs had enraged Lily and she had come for them. Valérie’s eyes had been literally blazing._

_Only when Chantal, Eugénie and Laure had read the article as well, and had started to grow angry, had Sirius realised just how dangerous four transformed, enraged Veela could be. The newspaper had turned to ashes in Chantal’s hands in seconds. Then the chair Laure had been gripping had started to burn, and smoke had started to rise from where Eugénie’s new talons had dug into the table. For a moment, Sirius had thought of casting a Flame-Freezing Charm, or a dozen, but then he had realised that discretion was the better part of valor in this situation, and had conducted a hasty retreat, just ahead of Kreacher._

_The sight of Valérie’s thin robe, aflame, right before the house elf had slammed the door close, had stayed with him though, and signed eyebrows and robes had been a small price to pay for such an experience. At least in his opinion. Remus, ever the too-serious, had called him crazy._

Well, that was Remus, the worrywart. As far as Sirius as concerned, the whole event had turned out well enough. The four girls had been apologetic about the loss of control, the house had gotten a new kitchen, the fire prevention charms had gotten an upgrade, and Kreacher would not even dream anymore of being rude to his guests. It still had taken quite an effort to keep his guests from returning to France at once. It had been understandable, after such an insult to their race.

Sirius sighed. They would eventually return to France, to their family, their lives. He was certain they’d remember their visit fondly, as he’d remember them. But they’d not stay. Not even Valérie.

Valérie. The shy one, or so he had thought. Until that morning. Noon. Whatever. All that passion, all that magnificent fire floating around her, consuming her robe, outlining her curves… a dangerous, beautiful, passionate woman. And yet he’d miss the talks with her the most, once she’d return to France.

He was tempted to follow her, them, when they went back, but he was needed here. Harry needed him, more than ever, with the prophecy hanging over his head. Sirius had failed his godson once, he’d not fail him again.

Sighing, he tried to focus on the latest report from Gringotts, if only to withstand the temptation to turn into Padfoot for the day.

*****

“Wards have been reinforced. Someone’s moving around inside, too - even though it’s late.”

“The target’s home then.” Keith Yennington nodded to Blasius Meister. “You and Hannah start on the wards on the house. The rest of us will be ready for reinforcements. Brendan and Hortensius will cover the backyard, me and Wulfred will be covering Blasius and Hannah as well as the front side’s most likely apparition point. If anyone tries to flee, stun them, Kill them before they can escape however. If anyone apparates, hit them before they know you’re there.”

“The mudbloods won’t know what hit them,” Blasius said, grinning widely. The rest of the group chuckled.

“Don’t underestimate them! They’ll have support from their patron too,” Keith cautioned his group. He didn’t want to lose another wand to overconfidence and arrogance.

“Their patron should have taught them not to put on airs,” Wulfred muttered.

Keith silently agreed with the thug. The house they were assaulting was a spacious one, far nicer than the house Keith had grown up in - and Keith was a pureblood. He didn’t share the rest of the group’s hatred of mudbloods, but they should know their place, and not try to lord it over purebloods. “Go now!”

His group split up, as ordered. No backtalk - a few muttered grumblings didn’t count. They still had a way to go, but they were closer to what Keith would consider acceptable wands for hire. He’d not face Ottoman raiders with them at his side, or French border patrols, but mudblood rabble and their negligent masters they could handle.

“Apparition and Floo connections are blocked. Disillusion as well. Working on the wards now,” Hannah reported after several minutes.

Keith could spot an owl leaving the house. He didn’t care. By the time it reached the recipient of the message, things would be over. He ran a hand over his enspelled pouch, where he carried the stolen loot he was to place in the house once they were done. It was possible that their employer could have decided it was easier to frame competitors, but Keith had stopped believing this was about thieves a while ago. He didn’t care - the gold was good, and that was all that counted for him.

A few minutes later the wards were down.

“Smash the windows and set fire to the house! We’ll smoke them out.”

That set his group complaining again - there would be less loot - but he shut them up with a glare. They had learned not to cross him.

Soon the living room he could see from his spot was burning brightly. Keith would have sealed the house if the goal was just to kill the targets, but their employer wanted prisoners. And Keith wanted to get his group some more practise in actual combat. Merlin knew they still needed it.

So he crouched down and had his wand ready. If the targets were smart, they’d fake a sally to the front, then flee to out the back. If they were ruthless or desperate, one or more would be sacrificed to let the others escape.

The front door was pushed open, and a figure appeared, casting wildly while running towards the wardline - and towards them. A sacrifice it was then. In the flickering light of the burning house, Keith saw it was a witch. It didn’t matter.

“Keep the back covered!” he shouted, then sent a Bludgeoning Curse at the witch. Her shield protected her, but she staggered. Wulfred hit her with a Piercing Curse, which her shield stopped as well. She was good - for a mudblood. Maybe even a hired guard. Keith turned the floor around her into a swamp - Transfiguration had been his best subject - and saw her slip and fall.

Slowed down and almost stuck in the mud, she couldn’t dodge and her shield didn’t last too long against the barrage of curses from Keith and Wulfred. Neither did her robe’s protections. Wulfred disarmed her, cackling loudly. Before he could reach her though Keith had stunned her and transfigured her into a small figurine.

“Hey!”

The other wizard turned towards him, snarling. He didn’t raise his wand though. He knew better than that. Everyone knew after Keith had dealt with Warrington.

Keith glared at the wizard. “This is not the time or place for that. Spend some of the gold for this in the brothels.” He didn’t know why his employer wanted the witch - and others - kidnapped, but he wasn’t about to let some rapist jeopardise the mission.

For a second, Wulfred held his gaze and Keith got ready to curse the thug, then the other looked away. “Alright boss.”

Keith nodded, but didn’t turn his back on the man while he stepped up to the burning house. He pulled the loot out, still in a bag, and threw it inside. The Aurors would think the witch had tried to flee with it, then had been forced to drop the bag in her attempt to escape.

A small explosion shook the house slightly and the heat increased. The mudblood must have had a potions lab set up somewhere inside. Keith fell back. “We’re done here! Meet up at the rally spot!” he shouted, with the aid of an Amplifying Charm.

Hopefully everyone would remember where that was, this time.

*****

“What a mess.” Kenneth Fenbrick sighed, looking the still smoldering remains of the house over.

“Four different signatures on the fire hexes. Three on the collateral damage in the garden - one of them the signature of the missing owner of the house,” Bertha Limmington noted.

“They’re getting more organised then. No ganging up on the obvious target.” Kenneth didn’t like it when criminals grew smart. It made his job more difficult - and more dangerous. “What about the rest of the family?”

“According to her Patron, the children had been living in his mansion for the last week. Her husband is in St. Mungo’s - spell mishap,” Bertha said while examining the floor of the house.

“Lucky guy.” Kenneth ignored the glare Bertha sent to him and looked at the hole in the floor. “Lab explosion?”

“Yes.” His partner was looking at a heap of molten and burned things on the ground.

“Do you think they were brewing illegal potions?” Kenneth knew better than to head into the remains of a lab. No one knew what kind of poison might have been left - or created - there.

“Impossible to say without a more thorough investigation.” Bertha picked up a golden cup that looked undamaged.

“What did you find?”

“A golden cup. Old and well-crafted.” Bertha levitated it in front of her to check it from all angles.

“Family heirloom?” Kenneth joked - it was far too old for a muggleborn family. It was more likely a gift from the family’s Patron.

“The family coat on it doesn’t match the victim’s Patron,” Bertha answered, using her wand to brush more soot away from the cup.

“Stolen loot?”

“I am rather certain that it was stolen.”

“The question is, by whom?”

Kenneth smiled at the glare his partner shot him. Both of them knew that this was not the work of thieves settling accounts with competitors. If there truly had been a hitherto unknown underground network of muggleborn thieves leading law-abiding lives as a cover, as the press and some Wizengamot members claimed, then the Aurors would have heard of it. If not before the murders started, then soon afterwards, when the surviving members would have come to them for protection. No, those muggleborns getting murdered were not thieves - but why would anyone want them to appear as thieves?

Kenneth didn’t like the possible answers he could think of.

*****

Remus Lupin wasn’t in a good mood, despite the upcoming Yuletide. Or maybe because of it. Krum was visiting again thanks to the lack of Quidditch matches during the holidays. Shouldn’t professional players train even during a break?

Remus stared at the essay he was supposed to be grading and dropped it on his desk. To be jealous of a kid was embarrassing. Even if said kid was an international Quidditch star and had been the Champion of Durmstrang for the latest Triwizard Tournament. And was not suffering from a curse that made a sizeable part of Britain consider them a beast. If he ever got his hands on Umbridge, he’d show her just how dangerous a werewolf could be…

The teacher stood up and began pacing in his office. The full moon was approaching. A few more days, and he’d feel his bones ache, his appetite change, and his mood grow more aggressive. And then would come the night of the full moon. The time when he would become a beast. Remus shuddered, then clenched his teeth together. He wouldn’t be a mindless beast. Not as he had been before the Wolfsbane potion had been invented. But his mind would still change. Far more emotional, far more prone to act impulsively, instinctively. Too much like a beast.

He had never talked with anyone about it. He had come close to with Sirius, one night, with both of them deep into their cups. But he had controlled himself. It was too private. Sirius was an animagus and an impulsive wizard. He wouldn’t understand how terrible it was for Remus to lose control, to change so much, each moon.

When he changed, things got too simple, too easy. He had no friends anymore, just family or acquaintances. People he wanted to defend, like Nymphadora, and people he didn’t care about. And people he wanted to rip to shreds. No matter how wrong such an action would be. Like Umbridge. Or Krum.

It was quite fortunate indeed that the full moon didn’t fall into Yuletide this year. Remus had no illusions about his chances with Nymphadora. He was old enough to be her father - well, almost old enough; he had not been as much of an ‘early bloomer’ as Sirius had been -, he suffered from the worst curse possible and his salary was not a tenth of what Krum was earning. Remus knew all that. He could even accept it, given time. But if he came to blows with the Bulgarian interloper, and it would be blows, not hexes…

He wasn’t certain what he’d fear more: Nymphadora despising him as a beast, or pitying him as a delusional old fool.

And of course there was the fact that being more emotional, more prone to act instinctively, was not a good state to be in when in the company of Veela who seemed bent on enjoying their own version of the Year of Discovery while they were in Britain. Nymphadora thinking he was a dirty old man, chasing girls half his age, and only pursuing her so he could sleep with a metamorphmagus, was another thing he didn’t want to happen.

He summoned his bottle of firewhiskey, a gift from Sirius for the term. It was almost empty now, just as his friend had predicted. Maybe he’d manage to straighten himself out if Krum married Nymphadora. Thinking about that made him draw himself a double shot.  
  
Although if Krum was really planning to marry into the family, then it was high time that he was introduced to the family tradition of pranking. Remus would have to drag Sirius away from his Veela girlfriends for a bit, to properly prepare a fitting prank, of course. It was certainly better than the mutt again trying to set him up with his old girlfriends. Remus hadn’t much, but he had his pride.

*****

Harry Potter watched the snow-covered Scottish countryside through the window of the Hogwarts Express. Yuletide! Harry had been looking forward to the occasion for quite some time now. It would be his third Yuletide at No 12, Grimmauld Place, and with a larger crowd than the two times before. Sirius, Hermione, Remus, the Black-Tonks family, Viktor and the four Veela who seemed to have moved in permanently with Sirius. Harry wasn’t sure what to think of that, actually. He had met the girls in France, but he didn’t know them. Or remember them well. There had been too many pretty blonde witches around then. And now they had spent more time in his home than Harry himself. Sometimes he wished Hogwarts was not a boarding school. He’d be able to spend more time with Sirius then.

“Thinking about your four godmothers?” Hermione asked, with a slightly teasing smile.

On the other hand, he’d be spending far less time with Hermione if Hogwarts was a day school. He shook his head. “No.” When he noticed her doubting expression, he added: “Well, partially. It’s just… they have spent more time with Sirius than I, than we have.”

“And what a time it must have been!” Ron cut in, grinning.

Harry glared at him - while he wished Sirius all the happiness his godfather deserved, he didn’t need to think of how exactly that was currently being achieved.

Hermione huffed at their friend. “If Padma were here, you’d pay for that remark.”

“But she isn’t. And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me,” Ron answered, unrepentant. “Four Veela, Fleur’s cousins!” he shook his head in apparent admiration.

“Speaking of, how is Fleur?” Harry asked. Last he had heard, the proud Veela had been incensed - literally - about the proposed reclassification law that would have made her a beast in Britain. Even though it was quickly buried in the Wizengamot.

Ron frowned. “She’s still in France, with Bill. They’ll visit over Yuletide, but mum’s not happy about it at all. We’ll have some turbulent holidays.” He shivered, and Harry, knowing the temper of Molly Weasley, and of Fleur, nodded in understanding.

“It is only reasonable for a couple to live in a country where neither partner is considered a second-class citizen,” Hermione stated primly, daring Ron to disagree. He didn’t. Harry’s friend knew it was a very touchy topic for the witch - there was no magical country where she wasn’t considered a third- or second-class citizen.

The next minutes passed in silence. Ron was reading a Quidditch magazine, Hermione was studying a book about spellcrafting and Harry was staring out of the window again, thinking about his family. He couldn’t stop thinking about it though.

“Do you really think he’ll marry one of them?” Harry knew that if Sirius was to marry, things would change in his home. He wasn’t certain how though.

“He cannot marry all of them, not in Britain,” Ron answered. “But wouldn’t marrying one of them make the other three jealous?”

“If he’s actually in a relationship with all four. That could be just a rumour,” Hermione added.

Harry held her hand, running his thumb over her skin. She hated how everyone expected her to be ‘the other witch’, and that situation was a bit too close to her own. Ron was in rare form today, pushing Hermione’s buttons without trying.

“You’ll find out soon enough!” Ron smiled widely, and winked at them.

Harry was about to change the topic when Hermione shifted around, hooking a leg over his. “Say, Ron, did you find out why Parkinson has been watching you so intently?” She sounded a bit too smug in Harry’s opinion.

“She’s watching me so Malfoy can focus on you two. I’m on to her though,” Ron answered confidently.

“Are you certain? I’ve heard rumours that she’s interested in you, if you know what I mean.” Hermione’s own grin widened.

“What? You’re joking, right?” Ron stared at her as if she had told him he had to return to Hogwarts because the rest of the Weasley family was visiting Fleur in France.

“It’s probably just a rumour. You’ll find out in Sixth Year, I guess.” Hermione smirked.

“Gah!” Ron shuddered at the thought, and both Harry and Hermione laughed until Padma returned. None of them wanted to explain what they were laughing about to Ron’s girlfriend. It was just a rumour, after all, and a baseless one too.

*****

The rumors had been true. Hermione Granger was convinced of that soon after her arrival at Grimmauld Place. Chantal, Eugénie, Laure and especially Valérie were just too comfortable with Sirius for this relationship not to be quite … she really didn’t want to call it ‘serious’, but it fit so well. Though the way the four Veela, wearing outfits completely inappropriate for the season, were draped around and over the wizard in the salon while he was talking to Harry about the last term at Hogwarts, that had to be staged. Sirius was obviously trying to embarrass Harry and herself.

It was working too. Hermione prided herself on being open-minded and tolerant, but this blatant display… she had to remind herself that wizards didn’t share the same morals as her muggle family. That there was no gender discrimination in Britain or France. And there was nothing wrong with consenting adults doing whatever they wanted in private. Really. Harry and herself would just ignore the display, and ruin Sirius’s prank.

They would, if Harry was cooperating. He wasn’t though. Her boyfriend was distracted, staring - and not just at his godfather. Hermione felt like scowling, but kept smiling. She was better than this. She knew he loved her. And yet… the young witch slid closer to Harry, then slid into his lap and started to distract him herself. She was not a Veela, but she was his girlfriend.

The talk about school soon broke down completely, replaced by giggling and French whispers, and babbling from Harry. And Sirius laughing loudly. No one got hexed though. Or burned.

*****

“Now, you two will be alone for the evening. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

His godfather winked at Harry Potter and Hermione while he was standing next to the Floo connection in the house, clad in resplendent dress robes in black and gold. He and his guests would be attending the Longbottom’s Yule Ball. Viktor had already gone through the Floo connection, to get his date at the Black-Tonks’ home. The four Veela were still getting ready upstairs. According to Hermione, who had been shopping with them, their robes were just shy of scandalous - even for witches. Harry wasn’t certain if he should regret the fact that he and Hermione wouldn’t attend the ball, or be glad. His girlfriend would have likely tried to match the French witches’ robes if her attitude so far was any indication, and he was not entirely certain how he felt about that. He liked her being more daring, more sure of herself, but to dress so provocatively… Not that she’d admit she was doing anything of the sort, of course.

But on the whole, he was looking forward to the evening. It would be just the two of them. Remus was off at Hogwarts for something, the older wizard hadn’t been too clear about it. Just the two of them then, without distractions. Or interruptions. Unless of course Kreacher tried again to provide detailed suggestions to ‘discipline Master’s Godson’s Slave’. That elf really had it out for Hermione.

Their guests descended the stairs, and Harry had to fight not to stare or he would be looking forward to a slightly less enjoyable evening than expected. It was hard though - the four were wearing matching robes in black and gold, slit multiple times from ankles to hip, and from hip to neck, tight enough to draw attention to their curves, loose enough to offer teasing glimpses. If Hermione wore such a robe… he glanced at his girlfriend, his imagination hard at work.

They smiled, waved at him, hugged Sirius and before Harry had realised it, the five adults had left through the Floo, leaving him alone with Hermione.

“That explains why minors are not invited,” Hermione said after about a minute.

“Too much pressure on them before they have gone through the Year of Discovery?” Harry asked, citing the official reason.

“No, too many scandals with underage witches and wizards wearing such robes. At least that’s how this ‘tradition’ started, in my opinion.” She glanced at him, then added. “Could you imagine me wearing that?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically before he caught himself. “Yes! Err...”

“Well, since you can, there’s no need for me to actually wear it, is it?” Hermione smirked at him.

“You wouldn’t wear it anyway.” Harry wasn’t pouting, at least he didn’t think he was.

“Maybe I would. But not now.” Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.

“You don’t have such robes.”

“I could transfigure my clothes. Easily.” Hermione ran her wand down her robes - which seemed to fit her just a bit more snugly after that.

“And duplicate all the charms on them?”

“Yes,” His girlfriend stated full of conviction.

“That I’d like to see.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure you didn’t!”

They were still going at it when they reached the dining room, where Kreacher had prepared a five course meal. Harry was certain it would be a very enjoyable evening.

*****

Azkaban looked as foreboding and hostile as its reputation indicated. Even more so at night. A dark island in the middle of a black sea. The only thing that stood out against the shadows and darkness were the white tops of the waves breaking against the rocky, steep shores. Voldemort thought he could spot a flickering light on top of the walls, or inside one of the towers, but it could have been a simple trick of the moonlight too. It didn’t matter - those he had come to see didn’t need or use lights.

He floated closer to the cliff. The wards of the island would have broken the charms on a broom by now, but he was flying with pure magic, and the wards were not built to counter that. They were not built with the greatest Dark Lord Britain had ever seen in mind! As he came closer he could feel his imprisoned followers suffering behind the cold, damp walls. Waiting for him, trusting him, even after more than a decade. To know, to feel such loyalty…

As he rose to the top of the cliffside he felt colder. The Warming Charm on his robes would be able to deal with any weather, no matter how extreme, but this was an unnatural cold, seeping into his bones no matter what he wore and what spells he cast. The aura of the Dementors, the soul-sucking guardians of Azkaban. The fiends had noticed him and were converging on his position. Lesser wizards would have fled now, or broken down. Voldemort was made of much sterner stuff, but even the Dark Lord was not immune to a Dementor’s power, much less a horde of them. Not without the talisman he had taken from Renquirt, at least. The talisman the scholar hadn’t been supposed to have.

When he saw the first shadow move towards him, tattered robes floating slowly through the air, he pulled it out. A soft light spread from it, and the cold disappeared at once. The fiends stopped their advance, circling around him, their inhuman faces hidden by large cowls and hoods. The talisman both attracted them, and held them at bay - that was what it had been made for. They were eerily silent - the only sound he could hear were the wind, and the waves clashing against the rocks below. He was wearing a dark cloak with a hood himself. From afar, he’d look like a Dementor.

“I have come to make a deal with the Ravenous Cold,” Voldemort stated. According to Renquirt that was what the Dementors called themselves. Or what the scholar believed came close to what they thought of themselves. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had spoken the correct words of parley. The demons surrounding him drew back, all but one. That one floated closer, facing him.

The Dementors did not speak, but they understood speech. That was common knowledge. And it was wrong, as Renquirt had explained when prompted under the Imperius. They understood concepts, images, memories, emotions - but not words. Quite a few of the wizards who had first attempted to deal with them had lost their souls because they had not understood that. Hadn’t understood the need to think and feel as precisely as one would word a contract. Or hadn’t have the mental discipline to achieve what they knew had to be done.

Voldemort understood, and could do it. And more importantly, he knew what the Dementors had wanted, when they had made the deal that resulted in them becoming the guards of Azkaban. What they had wanted, but had not been granted by the Ministry.

His offer was simple - he concentrated and imagined one Dementor, then two, then three. Breeding. The demon facing him understood, and grew agitated. Voldemort suddenly felt hunger, and he understood. He thought of food. Of eating. Added it to his offer. Breeding and Feeding. He felt more agitation, then felt constrained. Imprisoned. He shook his head. Only a fool would grant them the freedom to move and feed where they wanted. The Ministry had limited them in their deal to only be able to feed on command. Voldemort would do the same. But he would allow them to breed. The Ministry would never surpass that offer. Not before he had taken over, in any case. And afterwards… deals would be renegotiated.

Breeding and Feeding, Voldemort thought, and the demon understood, and accepted. The Dark Lord felt a tingle run through him when the deal was closed and he had gained a small army. He didn’t bother speaking, just willed them to feed on everyone outside a cell on the island, and they left to do his bidding.

While the human guards lost their souls when the inhuman guards turned on them, Voldemort floated down to the ground and started walking towards the prison. When he passed the gates, he pulled out a small bag containing small figurines. One for each of his followers imprisoned here, and a vial of polyjuice for each as well. And the figurine that was the transfigured body of Martin Steinmaur. He had come prepared.

*****


	20. Sacrifices

**Chapter 20: Sacrifices**

Azkaban looked dreadful even in plain daylight, Kenneth Fenbrick thought. All of it, rock, walls, and towers, looked drab, dark, and wet. He didn’t want to think about how it would look at night. The Auror had his wand out even before the ferry that he and his partner, Bertha Limmington, were on had reached the small pier. The first reports that they had heard, right after they had been called into work despite being on vacation, had stated that all of the Dementors had disappeared, but Kenneth wasn’t about to bet his life and soul on reports. Bertha had her wand in hand as well, as he noted.

“Do you expect an ambush?” He managed to smile, as if he was teasing like he often was. The wizard wasn’t certain if he had her fooled though - the former Ravenclaw was just a bit too perceptive. Even if at first sight she seemed to lose herself in details and regulations.

The witch shook her head slightly. “The chances that both the first response team and the reinforcements they called for could have overlooked an ambush are so low one can safely assume that’s not the case.”

“You’ve got your wand out.”

“The chances that the Dementors wait until more Aurors and Hit-Wizards are present are not that low, in my opinion,” Bertha explained. “Although, due to insufficient information, that’s just a cautious assumption.”

The idea that they could be swarmed by the missing Dementors was not helping Kenneth’s mood, already soured from having to leave the witch he had met the night before, and the Auror was quite tense when he stepped on the island. At the end of the pier he saw a covered body. “One guard managed to almost get away?”

Bertha nodded. “There wasn’t a guard stationed at the pier at night according to the schedule we got, so the guard must have come from the prison proper.” She would have studied the files diligently, of course.

A young Hit-Wizard stood guard there, his expression clearly showing that he felt an attack was imminent. Kenneth grinned - unless Britain suddenly found itself at war, guard and patrol duties were a Hit-Wizard’s daily work, with the more experienced ones occasionally providing support for Auror raids on the lairs of suspected dark wizards and similar targets. The wizard probably had been disappointed to learn what life as a Hit-Wizard actually was. Kenneth had no sympathy for him. If the kid hadn’t wanted to become a glorified guard, he should have done his homework. Both to get N.E.W.T.s good enough to enter the Auror Academy, and to know better than believe the recruiters from the DMLE, who still tried to paint Hit-Wizards as the few, the brave and the proud defenders of Britain. On the other hand, if the Dementors returned, the kid would be getting the fight of his life. Probably the last fight for his life as well.

Bertha had already levitated the tarp covering the body away and was inspecting the corpse. Kenneth bent over a bit to join her, after his customary glance at his partners rump when she crouched down. The poor soul - and wasn’t that a bad twist of phrase? He’d have to make certain not to use that wording when he spoke about it with a superior - looked like he had died from fright judging by the expression frozen on his face.

Bertha looked at the body, then at a series of pictures and a piece of parchment floating next to her. “Winfried Galldrift. He had the night patrol shift.” 

Kenneth took her word for it. His partner had an eye for that kind of stuff.

Bertha ran her wand over the body a few times.“Cause of death: Frozen to death.” 

“Dementor’s aura, or just exposure?” Kenneth asked. The North Sea in December wasn’t warm enough to survive a night outside, although warming charms should have kept the cold at bay. Unless someone had finited them, of course.

“The warming charms are still effective, so it was the aura.”

Kenneth nodded. “Which is quite unusual for a Dementor attack. Usually they leave their victims after taking their souls.” He grinned at the brief surprise that flickered over his stoic partner’s face at him having read that report.

“Correct.”

“Which means someone told them to do that,” Kenneth continued. But why would anyone order this? It wasn’t to remove witnesses; a kissed victim was a vegetable, braindead. And they didn’t feel anything, so killing them slowly shouldn’t appeal to the kind of sick wizards who liked such murders.

“That would be a logical conclusion, though we do not know enough about Dementors to be certain of that.” Bertha argued.

“We certainly do not know of any such a thing happening before.” Kenneth stated, but let the matter drop - for now - while they made their way to the prison proper.

The scene there was worse than Kenneth had expected. Four wizards were found at the foot of the main main tower, where the guardroom was. Kissed and frozen to death, all of them, with their wands out and the terror they must have felt when they had realised that they were doomed preserved on their faces.

“Patronus Charm residue on three wands,” Bertha noted. 

Kenneth knew that when faced with all the Dementors of Azkaban descending on them from all directions, they would have had to be wizards as powerful as Dumbledore to survive. Or maybe as powerful as the Boy-Who-Lived. According to a report, Potter had driven dozens of Dementors away with a single spell - in his third year. Kenneth didn’t really believe that, of course. It was just hype, like the children’s books using the kid’s name. “And on the fourth?”

“Shield Charm.”

“Must have panicked then.”

Bertha nodded in agreement. “Even with three Patronuses in the vicinity, that many Dementors would have been enough to frighten them out of their wits.”

“Until they couldn’t keep the spells up.” At which point they would have been kissed. 

Inside the tower it was worse. Theoretically, it would have been a defensible location, with the doors and windows easy to bar and lock. That hadn’t been done here, though - or so it seemed. Kenneth ran his wand over the main door. “The door has been opened with an Unlocking Charm.” He turned towards Bertha. “I’ll check with the first response team to find out if they opened the door, or if it was already open when they arrived.”

His partner just nodded, already studying the first corpse inside the tower.

A few minutes of asking nervous Hit-Wizards, all of them looking as if they expected an attack, later Kenneth had found the leader of the first response team, and had received confirmation that the door had been open when the team had arrived. He doubted that the guards outside had been able to open the door, but had then failed to get inside in time, so someone had been helping the Dementors. 

He returned to his partner, who was investigating a headless corpse. “I didn’t think Dementors actually ate the head of their victims. Or was that a kiss gone wrong?”

Bertha ignored his attempt at humour. “The effect matches the last spell on his wand, a Blasting Curse, and judging by the splatter pattern he blew his own head off.”

Kenneth shuddered. He could understand such a choice - it was better to lose your life than your soul. He didn’t know if he would be able to do it, though, if faced with the same situation. Although... “He could have been imperiused.” 

“The door wasn’t opened by the first response team then.” Bertha understood his reasoning at once.

Kenneth nodded. “It was open when they arrived.”

“It’s still unlikely that someone would have imperiused the victim - the man would have been kissed anyway.”

“True.” Unless the unknown intruder was the sort who loved forcing people to kill themselves. There had been one or two of them in the last war.

Most of the rest of the guards were found inside the tower, kissed and frozen to death. Kenneth managed to not think too much about their last minutes, about the horror they had experienced losing their very souls. “All of them were wearing the necklaces that marked them as safe.”

“Yes. Either those were sabotaged somehow - all of them - or someone convinced the Dementors to alter the deal.” Bertha’s tone made clear what she thought had happened. She still added: “And if the deal hadn’t been altered, the Dementors would still be present, doing their part as they saw fit.”

Going downstairs into the actual dungeons, the two Aurors found the last guard and an unknown wizard. Both were dead. 

Kenneth crouched down as well this time, studying the corpse. “No badge, foreign robe, continental style of protections. Identical necklace though. We might have our intruder,” the Auror said. If the wizard had been killed by the Dementors after setting them loose, he deserved his fate. If.

“He’s not on the list of guards on duty, and the Unlocking Charm was the last spell cast with his wand,” Bertha added.

“That would fit the scene.” Maybe a bit too perfectly, Kenneth thought. “Let’s check the cells.”

The cells were the stuff of nightmares. Kenneth had known that Azkaban was a horrible place, from the reports he had read following the escape of Sirius Black as well as from gossip with the guards who fetched prisoners from there to their trials and back, but reading and hearing about it didn’t compare to actually seeing the emaciated prisoners dressed in rags and covered with rashes and dirt, and smelling the filth accumulated in a cell… He had cast a Bubble-Head Charm at once, and he still almost threw up. Even the unflappable Bertha seemed shaken. Somewhat. 

“Merlin! They must have welcomed the Dementor’s kiss to finally be free of this!” he exclaimed, after pulling back the sleeve of a ragged prisoner’s robe, and revealing an arm that was barely more than skin and bones, covered with sores and and scars.

Bertha started to nod, then checked herself before casting a few spells at the body. For his partner to almost agree to such a statement she truly had to be shaken.

“How many prisoners are, were here?” Kenneth took a few deep breaths. He should look into adding a Bubble-Head Charm to his robe - but then, sometimes one needed to smell such scents, to get the best picture of a crime scene.

“27.”

It took two hours to check each cell, each corpse, each door. Kenneth knew that if he had been alone, he’d have become sloppy after the first five or six more or less identical corpse. He wouldn’t have be able to study each in detail. Bertha though carried on, methodically, to the last dead prisoner. It was her who discovered that some of them, the marked Death Eaters, had fresh wounds on their hands, scraped skin from their knuckles, as if they had tried to defend themselves, or get away.

Both Aurors were very glad to reach the fresh air of the prison’s courtyard again. They couldn’t take too long to recover though - Amelia Bones, the Head of the DMLE wanted results, and she wanted them yesterday. Kenneth and Bertha had to prepare their report as soon as possible.

Kenneth already knew some things didn’t add up. Why were the Death Eaters the only ones who had tried to defend themselves, instead of waiting for the end like the other prisoners? True, they were said to be the most resilient compared to the other prisoners, lasting for years, over a decade, while the other prisoner usually were driven to madness or succumbed to despair and died in a few months to a year, but… all of them attempting to resist when none of the others, not even the one rapist who had arrived a month ago, had managed that? It was possible, of course.

But there were other things that didn’t feel right to him. Had the whole massacre truly been the work of a single person, who had then been killed by the Dementors? That sounded a bit too convenient. Too neat. He had only rarely found crimes as neatly wrapped up before the investigation had even started.

And there was the attack by Dementors on Harry Potter, two years ago. The DMLE had never found out who had ordered the monsters to attack. The general assumption was that Malcom Branwick, the one who had tried to get Potter killed, first in the Triwizard Tournament and later in Bulgaria, had been behind that attack as well. But to order Dementors around required the help from someone in the Ministry. Someone who hadn’t been caught yet. Even to get the necklace that had marked guards as safe - until last night - would have required help, either a mole, or a very skilled burglar.

Someone was behind this, someone who was still alive. Even though all the evidence so far pointed at the dead intruder, Kenneth was certain that that one had not been the mastermind. Too young, too foreign, and too dumb.

He glanced at his partner while they walked to the ferry. He could tell that she was thinking about something, worrying. Kenneth would have bet quite a lot of gold that she shared his suspicions. And that the two of them were not wrong.

*****

Amelia Bones’s office had not changed much since he had first visited it, years ago, Albus Dumbledore noted. The same wizarding picture hung on the wall, showing the current head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the time she had graduated from the Auror Academy, together with her friends. Friends who had not survived the war against Voldemort. Next to it hung a picture of her family - all dead as well, but for little Susan, whose picture was on the witch’s desk. Other than that, the office held nothing but furniture, reports, and files. Albus assumed that the pictures were there to remind Amelia what she had lost, and what she was living and working for still. He’d never ask her, of course.

“Hello Albus. Thank you for coming so quickly after I called. Please have a seat.” Amelia sounded polite, but there was a hint of suspicion in her voice as well - though that could simply be normal for her. Déformation professionelle was a thing among Aurors. Among teachers too.

“Thank you, Amelia. Of course I came as soon as I heard. Such an emergency always takes precedence over my vacation schedule.” 

He smiled as he sat down. It wasn’t as if he had much going on anyway, not with the school all but empty and politics, domestic or international, being equally quiet during Yuletide. Most of his colleagues and friends were celebrating Yuletide with their families. They would not dare to invite the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the ICW to join them, for that might be seen as a faux pas. Even if they knew he had - officially - no family left. But that was part of the price he had to pay for doing what he needed to and what no one else seemed to be able or willing to. And part of his penance.

Amelia’s answering smile showed that she didn’t think she had been the first to inform Albus of the incident at Azkaban. She hadn’t, of course, but it would be impolite to mention that. “I’ve read the preliminary reports from my Aurors. Ten guards dead, twenty-seven prisoners dead, one intruder dead. No sign of the Dementors.”

Albus had known that already, thanks to Nymphadora. He also knew that Amelia had arrived with the reinforcements for the First Response Team, so she had seen the carnage herself. He could have gone himself, but to visit Azkaban again, to see what his country had done there, for so long… there was a reason he had made sure Gellert was imprisoned in Nurmengard. If only he had managed to get rid of Azkaban… but he couldn’t dwell on those regrets, not now. “Did you identify the intruder?”

“He has been tentatively identified as Martin Steinmaur, a German graduate from Durmstrang.” Amelia answered.

Albus raised his eyebrows in surprise and she explained further: “A man with that name visited the Ministry expert on Dementors, Ebenezer Renquirt, some time ago, and Renquirt’s description - 25 years old, long beard, glasses - matches the body we found. Our expert also, if too late, noticed that he’s missing the necklace he was given so he could study the Dementors safely. All we know so far is just what Renquirt was told though - we still have to check the actual records of Durmstrang and the Prussians.”

“It seems a bit hard to believe that a man able to make a deal with Dementors would not have covered his tracks better.” Albus noted, watching Amelia.

“It is a bit hard to believe that a man able to make a deal with Dementors would end up dead at their hands so quickly. This required a lot of preparations, and I’d think carefully wording the deal in advance would be obvious.” Amelia stared back at him.

“I concur,” Albus stated, his voice mild. Should he tell Amelia what he knew? She’d be furious for him keeping it secret, but she’d understand, after a bit. The teacher in him wanted her to make the connection herself though; students always retained things they found out for themselves better than what the teacher told them. “I assume you have discovered more such… discrepancies?”

“Yes.” Amelia narrowed her eyes slightly. 

Albus almost smiled ruefully - he had to remember that she wasn’t a student anymore, hadn’t been for decades. His age was catching up with him. 

“The necklace we found wouldn’t have allowed the wizard to make a deal with the Dementors. He would have needed actual authority, power, influence to have something to offer to the monsters.”

“His own soul wouldn’t have been enough then?” Albus didn’t like to think of how desperate a man would have to be to bargain his very soul away - and to what purpose?

“Not by far according to our experts.” Amelia anticipated Albus’s next question and added: “Apart from Renquirt, who might have been imperiused, I’ve talked to the Unspeakables. They confirmed his statements.”

“You believe ‘Steinmaur’, if that’s his name, was just a decoy then.”

“Yes. Whoever is behind this either has a lot of influence in the Ministry, or works for the Ministry.” Amelia’s face made no secret of just how much she hated what she had just said.

“Whoever sent the Dementors after young Harry two years ago was never found.” Albus kept his tone free of any reproach. Amelia was a very skilled head for the DMLE, especially compared to her predecessors, but she was up against a truly exceptional wizard.

“I thought of that myself, but if he had such influence over the Dementors back then, why would he have needed to speak with Renquirt and steal his necklace?”

“He might have had an unwitting or unwilling helper at the right place then, who couldn’t do anything more now.” Albus had his suspicions, of course, but only Voldemort knew the truth. Though Albus was certain that whoever managed to tamper with the Goblet of Fire while it was in the Ministry would have been able to manipulate the Dementors’ orders before that too.

“Maybe. Whoever it is now controls the Dementors. Once that gets out there’ll be a panic among the population. I’ve already ordered all available wands to train in containing the monsters.” Amelia’s face showed that she knew that her order would only hasten the spread of that news. Then she grinned, though without humour. “At least our unknown mastermind rid us of our worst criminals.”

“Maybe.” Albus knew that Voldemort wouldn’t have killed his most loyal followers - he would have freed them.

“Maybe? What do you suspect, Albus? I’ve no time nor tolerance for games!” Amelia was now showing her infamous temper. She was one of the few who didn’t tiptoe around Albus - a refreshing attitude.

“I have heard rumors from some of my acquaintances, tales of someone recruiting wands for hire. Lots of them, and the kind who lacks any scruples as long as the gold is good. The criminals killed in Azkaban would have been a good fit for such an army, at least those who didn’t go mad.” Albus carefully kept himself from sounding too serious, or too casually. 

“The only ones who weren’t mad already were the Death Eaters, and even their sanity is in doubt after over a decade in that hellhole. And those murderers would never follow anyone else than their dead Dark Lord.” Amelia scoffed at the thought, then stared at Albus. The Headmaster held her gaze. “Merlin’s balls! The attacks on Potter in the last two years. The attack on the World Cup. You think You-Know-Who is not dead!?”

Albus evaded the question. “Only someone truly dedicated to the Dark Lord’s cause would be so intent on killing young Harry. As talented and remarkable as the boy is, he has not done anything else to make such an enemy. And whoever was behind those attacks is certainly driven and skilled enough to be able to lead the Dark Lord’s remaining followers. I believe Malcom Branwick was but a decoy himself.”

“But you believe You-Know-Who is alive,” Amelia stated rather than asked.

“I have no proof.” None that he could give her without endangering Harry. But his suspicions would be good enough - for Amelia at least. And he’d rather not spread the knowledge that the Dark Arts could allow someone to come back from what would have been certain death, not even to such trustworthy souls as Amelia Bones.

“And if you claimed this, there would be an even worse panic, or people would attack you as delusional.” Amelia smiled cynically.

“Or both.” Albus was not quite as cynical as the head of the DMLE, but he shared her views of Britain’s likely reaction to anyone claiming Voldemort had returned.

“Merlin curse it! This case turned out to be even worse than I feared. And the Minister is already nagging me, wanting it solved yesterday!” Amelia ground her teeth.

“I will speak with Cornelius.” The Minister would certainly be reasonable, if Albus explained the situation - without bothering him with mere speculation, of course. “Although there remains the issue of the apparently killed Death Eaters.”

“I’ve seen the bodies, Albus.”

“Yes. And anyone who dies under the influence of polyjuice will stay polyjuiced.” Unlike transfiguration spells, which were a constant magical effect and would end or could be ended. A polyjuice potion tricked a wizard’s own magic into thinking the changed state was natural. When the potion’s effect ended, the wizard’s magic would return his body to its natural state. But a corpse had no magic of its own anymore. “I believe there has been a steep rise in kidnappings and disappearances, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, we’ve had over a dozen missing person cases in the last week.” Amelia frowned. Albus hoped it was because of the possible fate of the victims, and not just because he had just reminded her of the fact that he had sources inside her department. “But it’s impossible to prove they were replaced with polyjuiced doubles until we capture one of the originals.”

“I will speak with Saul about ways to detect polyjuice in corpses. Please have the bodies put into stasis.” Albus knew the bodies were already in stasis, to prevent them from decomposing, but this would keep them there. And it would provide a good cover for the other topic he wanted to talk with Saul about. He reminded himself that he could trust Amelia with that as well, but he could inform her after he knew if his idea was possible in the first place.

“Alright, Albus. I expect to be kept informed of all new developments though. This is too big to be handled by you and your friends.” Amelia almost sneered at the word ‘friends’ - it seemed she had not forgotten that her brother had fought with Albus against Voldemort. 

“Thank you, Amelia. I will be off then.” It was not entirely fair of her to blame Albus for the loss of her family to Death Eaters. Her brother and his wife had volunteered, after all. But the Headmaster accepted the blame nonetheless. Leading the Order had been, and still was, his responsibility, and so were their deaths.

Albus slowly stood up, nodded at Amelia, who was already grabbing another piece of parchment, and left her office. She had her department to run through a crisis, he had to speak to an Unspeakable.

*****

“Nymphadora was called into work? Wasn’t she on vacation?” Sirius sounded more shocked than Harry Potter thought was appropriate after hearing Andromeda’s and Ted’s explanation for their daughter’s absence at the now traditional gathering of the Black Family for the Yuletide gifts. Then Harry noticed that Hermione looked worried as well, and reconsidered. Nymphadora was a young Auror, but there were younger ones to get called if the Ministry just needed someone to fill in for a sick Auror. So, something serious had to have happened to make the DMLE ruin her vacation.

Harry wasn’t the only one to understand that, and the gift exchange was more than a little subdued at the start. It didn’t stay that way, though. 

“Ah… do you fear a trap, or poison?” Viktor had noticed that both Harry and Hermione ran a series of spells on all their gifts before touching them, much less opening them.

“No, we’re just expecting a prank or two,” Hermione answered the Bulgarian, with a meaningful glance towards Sirius.

“Ah.” Viktor looked at Sirius, who was doing his best to appear as innocent as possible. He was, of course, failing to convince anyone, and so the seeker started to check his gifts as well, followed by the Black-Tonkses and even the French house-guests.

Viktor was the first to detect something, and, with a triumphant grin, cast a finite on it before Harry or Hermione could warn him. He was immediately buried under an avalanche of sticky sweets of all kinds that broke out of the box. Sirius must have shrunk a small mountain of the confections.

“With Sirius, pranks are more like tasks for a curse-breaking competition,” Harry explained to Viktor after he and Hermione had managed to extract their guest from his sweet prison. 

“I see…” the Quidditch Star glanced over at Sirius and, surprisingly, Remus, who were laughing so much, they had fallen to the floor. Harry and Hermione discovered that It was harder than expected to get the sweets off the seeker - they were charmed to stick to him, and resistant to spells.

Hermione was glaring at the two nominal adults. “Honestly, I’d have expected better of Remus, at least. I bet Nymphadora was meant to eat them off him.”

Harry thought so as well. A few conjured animals did the trick in the metamorphmagus’s absence, exposing a fault in two Marauders’ scheme, to their apparent but vastly overdone chagrin. That the animals were changing colors and making weird sounds revealed what the two pranksters had had in store for Nymphadora. Their gifts for Harry and Hermione were, surprisingly, not pranked. Which meant either the food, or the furniture would be, of course. He opened his own gift, and for a moment he thought they had mixed it up with Hermione’s - a book that thick was usually meant for his retainer.

Then he opened it and found ‘The Complete Wizard’s Guide to Sex’. Illustrated extensively, with drawings that depicted himself and Hermione. Harry couldn’t help but stare at the moving pictures. Was that even possible without dislocating something?

“Oh, you got a book! Can I see it?” Hermione was already assuming the answer would be ‘yes’ - who would be as foolish as to try to keep her from a book, after all, Harry knew - and reached for it. He barely managed to slam the book closed before she got a hold of it.

“It’s a prank gift,” he whispered, showing her the title on the spine, which was, fortunately, not illustrated. Her eyes widened when she realised what kind of book he had received, and her glare towards his godfather and honorary uncle redoubled. At least her own gift, a subscription to ‘The Curse-Breaker Journal’, hadn’t been chosen for maximum embarrassment. Harry just knew he’d not be able to sleep without dreaming of what he had glimpsed already.

Then Valérie d’Aigle mentioned that Sirius had helped her and her cousins to pick their gift for Hermione, and Harry saw his love blush terribly while thanking the earnest-looking witch for what appeared, as far as Harry could tell, to be a series of French novels. Judging by how Sirius was trying to hide his mirth, it was probably something embarrassing too.

It wasn’t until they were finishing dinner and waiting for dessert that Harry realised that in all the confusion and excitement, the gloom that had hung over the celebration at the start had disappeared completely.

*****

Sirius Black was in his bedroom, fighting the urge to change into Padfoot, roll up on the carpet, and forget about everything Nymphadora had told him. He wanted to, but this time, Padfoot would only remind him of that hell he had escaped two years ago. That horror that had almost broken him. Azkaban.

He shivered, remembering the cold, the wet cells, the stench, and the torments. The screams from other prisoners, who were slowly going mad - and knew it. Becoming Padfoot had helped him, had saved him, but that had been there, then. He was no longer a prisoner, he couldn’t, shouldn’t hide as Padfoot from this. He had friends, he had a family who depended on him.

And yet he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing Azkaban, feeling the Dementors passing the cells, the cold seeping into his bones, the terror paralyzing him. Everyone, guards and prisoners, dead? No, kissed first, then frozen to death?

He wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to stop from shaking. 37 people lost their souls and their lives. If he had still been there he’d have suffered the same, horrible fate. He didn’t know how to feel about that. The prisoners had been terrible people who had done abhorrent crimes. But Britain had thought the same of him, before he had been exonerated. What if there had been others like him, innocents suffering there? He didn’t want to think about that. Or about the guards. During Yuletide, only the dregs of the DMLE and those who had screwed up would have been on duty. And the youngest, of course. Those who couldn’t get a vacation when everyone who was senior to them got one.

Sirius started to rock back and force, his arms wrapped around his knees. For the prisoners, death would have been a mercy. Living in Azkaban was worse than death. But to lose their souls… did that mean they were truly lost, and would not reach the afterlife? Although, if they had been killed and not kissed after they had been driven mad, would they stay insane in the afterlife? Or as a ghost? An eternity spent in the throes of madness, a shambling hulk of who they had been… Sirius wasn’t certain he wanted to know the answers to those questions.

He heard the door open behind him. Probably Remus, trying to get him to come down and eat something, again. His friend was trying, but he just didn’t understand Azkaban. No one alive did, not even the guards. He was the only one left who did. Fortunately, Sirius had sent Harry with Hermione to visit her parents, claiming he would be fine. He couldn’t stand the thought of them seeing him like this. Broken. Useless. Pathetic.

Footsteps behind him meant Remus was walking towards him. But before he could say anything to his friend he felt slender arms wrap around him, a head rest on his shoulder, and breasts pressing into his back. That wasn’t Remus.

He took a deep breath. That perfume… he knew it was Valérie. The Veela didn’t say anything, she simply held him. Was there with him, offered him warmth, and … love. Slowly, he started to stop shaking. More footsteps. More arms around him. More warmth. Chantal. Laure. Eugénie. 

For a while, the only sound he heard was their and his own breathing. And then, when he closed his eyes, he didn’t see Azkaban anymore.

*****

“A way to test a corpse for polyjuice? Quite an interesting problem, indeed. I think magical residue would not work, but blood testing could work. Even if the potion was not detectable, parts of what it breaks down into might be. Muggles have some fascinating solutions for similar problems. But it would require… hm….” Saul Croaker was already making extensive notes on one of the many, many parchments cluttering up his office deep in the bowels of the Ministry.

Albus Dumbledore kept smiling, even though he wanted to frown. Saul had a tendency to get lost in any magical problem presented to him, to the point of forgetting he was not alone. He had heard that was common among the Unspeakables. Some even claimed that was where their name came from - that it was impossible to carry a longer conversation with anyone of them before they started working on a new idea.

The Headmaster coughed slightly. Saul didn’t react at all. He coughed louder. Still no reaction. “Saul? Saul? SAUL!”

“What?” Saul looked up and at Albus as if the latter had just broken into his office. Sometimes the Headmaster thought that Saul was doing this deliberately to get rid of visitors who kept him from his work. He could understand that, if it was true - but the crisis they had was too important for such antics.

“That is just one of two things I came to you for.” He smiled and hid his annoyance.

“Oh. Right. What’s the other one?” Saul was already looking again at the notes he had just scribbled down.

Albus’s smile became strained. “I have no proof I can share, but I am certain that Voldemort has returned.” 

“Ah.” Saul sat up straight and grew serious at once. His absent-mindedness had been an act!

This time the Headmaster didn’t hide his annoyance. “Further, I believe that sooner or later he will try to visit the Hall of Prophecies.” 

“The prophecy. I assume you want my department to prevent him from learning its contents.” 

“I wish for you to ensure that he cannot visit without the DMLE and myself knowing about it.” Albus didn’t know how serious the Unspeakables took the original purpose of the Hall of Prophecies these days. They had been quite understanding of the need to oppose Voldemort in the last war. 

“I rather doubt he’ll show up in person and ask for a tour.” Saul smirked at his own feeble joke.

“I would assume that he will try to break in. He managed to have the Goblet of Fire tampered with while it was in storage here, after all.” Albus hoped that would make Saul take this as seriously as was needed.

“That’s a theory. He could have done that at Hogwarts.” Saul frowned.

“I doubt that. But if it was true it would prove that he can break into the Department of Mysteries. Especially with Rookwood’s help.” Hogwarts was the most secure place in Britain, after all.

Saul didn’t like to be reminded of that particular traitor. “After more than a decade in Azkaban, he has to have lost his mind. No one can last that long and keep his sanity.”

“Sirius Black has done so.” Albus didn’t smile. Sirius’s ordeal still filled him with shame for what he felt was another of his many failures.

“He was an animagus. Rookwood isn’t. And Black’s sanity is debatable.”

“All Death Eaters showed a remarkable resilience in Azkaban. Far more than any other prisoner.”

Saul had no answer to that. “I’ll strengthen security. I assume you will want to be consulted?”

“I am happy to lend my assistance.” Albus smiled.

“Of course you are. We’ll call you once we’re done.” Saul was still frowning. He really didn’t like to defer to Albus in such matters. But the Unspeakables were far too academically minded, far too aloof, when it came to Wizarding Britain’s needs, to be trusted without some oversight. Official or unofficial.

“Thank you, Saul.” Albus nodded graciously - he had achieved what he had come here for. Now he had to inform Amelia of this, and then talk with Harry and Sirius. He wasn’t looking forward to either talk. Fortunately, young Nymphadora would have already informed her family of the incident at Azkaban and he wouldn’t have to break that piece of news to them.

*****

“Milord! Milord! You came for us! Just as I knew you would!” 

Voldemort kept smiling while Bellatrix Lestrange, his Bella, wrapped her arms around his legs and tried to kiss his feet while weeping with joy and relief. A number of Cleaning Charms had removed the dirt and grime, the filth she had been covered in. Her rags had been replaced with the kind of daring robes she had favored before her arrest. Her hair had been styled with charms. But despite all that and even after several nutrition potions she still looked far too thin, far too worn, far too old. Voldemort had to fight to keep smiling gently at his Bella. He wanted to rage at the monsters who had done this to her, had tried to break her, destroy her beauty, her mind, her very soul. They would pay for this. They would all pay! No one touched what was his!

He would never forget Azkaban, nor the the hollow shells of wizards and witches he had found in the cells there, their minds destroyed by relentless torture. Feeding the poor wretches to the Dementors had been a mercy, in his opinion. Who would have wanted to live like that? And to think that without him, without his marks lending them strength, his followers, his Bella, would have shared that fate! 

He had seen a lot of horrors in the aftermath of Grindelwald’s War. But he wouldn’t have expected to find such horrors in Dumbledore’s Britain. The old man was an even worse hypocrite than he had thought. With an effort the Dark Lord controlled himself. 

“I came for you, Bella, as you knew I would.” He bent down and gently pried her arms loose. “You have suffered so much for me, Bella, withstood so much, and never broke, unlike others. And you shall be rewarded.” The way she stared at him was almost painful. Bellatrix shouldn’t be so… grateful. Overwhelmed. Bro… no, not broken. Never broken. She was too strong for that, she’d recover. She’d be his brave, beautiful love again, standing up to everyone, even himself - within limits, of course.

“Milord?”

“Your body is suffering from the torture you were subjected to. I’ve prepared a ritual to restore it. What years that place has stolen from you shall be returned to you.” He pulled her up, then steadied her while he led her towards the stairs leading to the basement in his safe house. She was silently weeping, but he ignored it. His Bella didn’t weep, wouldn’t weep.

The basement had been prepared for the ritual. The circle was ready. The sacrifice - a young pureblood witch of exceptional beauty, only the best for his Bella - was bound to the altar with silver chains. Her eyes were wide with fright and horror, but a gag kept her silent. Blood dripped to the floor from where the chains had torn into her skin during her futile attempts to escape. He smiled at her. Her life would restore Bella’s youth and beauty. The Dark Lord would have a fitting consort.

He had Bella kneel in the middle of the circle and then started the ritual. The candles were lit, the runes glowed, and the words and chants came easy to his lips. When he drew the dagger, crafted from the thigh bone of Elizabeth Báthory, Bella’s eyes lit up while the other witch started to struggle again, desperately trying to escape her fate.

The chains held her, drawing more blood, until the enchanted bone knife descended.

*****

“I know it’s a tragedy, and it’s terrible that the Dementors are on the loose, but all I can think of is that the Death Eaters responsible for the attack on my parents are finally dead.” 

Hermione Granger, sitting next to Harry in the compartment of the Hogwarts Express, fought the urge to tell Neville that those Death Eaters had actually escaped Azkaban, leaving innocent polyjuiced victims to take their place for the Dementors. The Headmaster had told them to keep it a secret. Only Harry, herself, Sirius, Remus, Nymphadora and Ron knew about it. And yet she had to say something to correct her friend. “They lost their souls and then died, Neville.”

“Even better!” 

Neville’s grin was positively feral, a far cry from his usually rather shy smile. Though Hermione was certain that if her parents had been tortured until they lost their minds, she’d have similar feelings towards the culprits. Or if it had been Harry. She reached over and grabbed her boyfriend’s hand, squeezing it. It had been a really horrible week for him. Knowing that Voldemort had not only all the Dementors, but also his most fanatic followers at his command now had been bad enough. But then Harry had woken up, his scar bleeding, and told her of another ritual, another human sacrifice he had witnessed. A young witch had been murdered, her life and soul stolen, used up to restore Bellatrix Lestrange’s health and youth - Hermione felt sick just thinking about it. And Harry had seen it, as if he had been the one to wield the knife… 

“The Dementors are not as dangerous as people think. The Quibbler has printed a special edition full of anti-Dementor measures!” Luna announced, holding up the issue in question. 

Hermione smiled at her friend and took one to read the first article out loud. Or at least the important parts. “Locked or barred doors will stop them.” That was correct. Despite popular belief, the Dementors were not ghosts and could not pass through obstacles. On the contrary, they were physically so weak that even minor obstacles would prevent them from passing. 

“Eating enough chocolate will allow you to withstand their aura long enough to reach the next Floo connection, or apparate away.” That could be true - though so far, Hermione only ever had seen chocolate used in the aftermath, to help people recover. It wouldn’t do any harm, though. 

“Learning the Patronus Charm will allow you to keep a Dementor at bay and drive it away should you get caught outside your home.” That was true as well, though Hermione wasn’t certain how many would be able to learn the spell, much less cast it in the presence of a Dementor. Nymphadora had been quite vocal in her criticism of her colleagues’ skill in that area.

“Though it is recommended that you stock up on Harry Potters, for one of them is enough to drive a hundred Dementors away… Luna!” Hermione looked at her friend, frowning. 

The blonde Ravenclaw was beaming at her. “It’s all true!”

“That is not the point.” Hermione felt Harry’s hand on her thigh, gently squeezing, and sighed. It was true, after all, even though Hermione felt the topic was far too serious to make light of it in such a manner.

Luna just kept smiling happily. “People need some laughter too, especially in these times. Anyway, the Ministry has endorsed the article fully, so that makes it official! That was the first time any article in the Quibbler has been endorsed by the Ministry, by the way. My daddy said they even asked for a second, bigger printing run!” She leaned forward and touched Hermione’s knee.

The blonde witch was so happy, Hermione had to swallow her cynical comment that the Ministry was doing everything it could to keep the population from panicking. Even if it meant endorsing the journal that kept linking Fudge to various disturbing rumours. “I am glad for yours and your father’s success, Luna.”

“Me too,” Harry stated, pulling Hermione a bit closer to him, which meant she was halfway into his lap and Luna lost her grip on her knee. The surprised blonde would have fallen from her seat if not for Aicha’s quick reaction with her wand and a very ingenious use of a sticking charm.

“Aicha! you almost made me rip my new robe!” Luna turned towards her best friend, pouting.

“Would you rather have fallen down on the floor, head first?” Aicha asked. She quickly continued when Luna opened her mouth: “If you say ‘yes’ I will levitate you to the ceiling and then drop you!” 

Luna shut her mouth and sat down to sulk for a second. Then she was smiling again. Hermione wondered briefly why her friend wasn’t blaming Harry, but then reminded herself that it was Luna. She was quirky.

“Wardrobe malfunctions aside,” Ron spoke up from where he was sitting next to Padma, who was reading a thick book on runes Hermione had on her list as well, “the Ministry also recommends staying indoors and within wards, and to travel from house to house using the Floo Network or apparition.” He held up a flyer. “Dad has a dozen of those to distribute.”

Hermione shook her head. “That won’t help if the Dementors are with someone who can break down wards, and block Floo connections.” Like Voldemort, or one of his Death Eaters.

“But if those come you’re already in lethal trouble,” Ron countered.

Neville looked confused. “Are you talking about the raids? Gran said those were the results of infighting between thieves.”

“That’s what the Ministry wants you to think!” Luna piped up. “It’s actually a conspiracy to eliminate successful muggleborn merchants and craftsmen. Daddy has an article in the upcoming issue about it.”

Hermione saw Neville, Aicha, Ginny and Padma looking at her. They were expecting her to debunk Luna’s claim, she realised. She shook her head. “Luna’s right. It’s very improbable that there was an organisation of thieves who all led perfect double-lives and were all muggleborns.”

That earned her incredulous stares from four of her friends, and an enthusiastic hug from a fifth. And a protesting groan from Harry, who suddenly had the weight of two girls in his lap. And yet Hermione smiled. It felt good to be back among their friends, dealing with their innocent antics instead of visions of sacrifices and memories of Azkaban.

*****

Keith Yennington shivered. Something was not right. His robe should keep him pleasantly warm no matter the weather. He checked his charms. They were still working. And yet he felt cold. Very cold. He looked at the bound muggle family he had kidnapped from their camping ground. The hairs on their limbs were sticking up, and they were shivering despite being unconscious. So it was actual coldness, not an illusion.

He was at the exact spot he had been told by his employer to deliver the muggles to: The ruins of an old manor. He couldn’t tell if it had been destroyed in a war or had simply decayed through neglect. He didn’t care either, just as he didn’t care how many muggles or mudbloods he had to kidnap, or what his boss did with them. As long as he got paid. And he did get paid.

He thought he saw something moving, in the ruins of what he assumed was the kitchen. Was that his contact? There was something moving there… floating. Was it a ghost? He didn’t like ghosts. They were witnesses he couldn’t silence. But why was it so cold? And for a ghost that thing was a bit too opaque. 

Another movement, on the other side, caught his attention. There were two of them! Tattered robes, floating, this cold… Merlin’s wand, they were Dementors! He took a deep breath. Had his boss sent him into an ambush, to silence him? That didn’t make much sense. He could always escape, after all. And he had received the order two days ago - would Dementors really stay that long in one deserted place?

“Good evening, Mister Yennington.”

Keith whirled around. His boss, Greenbrand, was behind him. He hadn’t heard or seen him arrive. He didn’t think he had gotten sloppy, so the man was that good. And not impressed or bothered by staring at Keith’s wand aimed at his head. Greenbrand had to be even more dangerous than Keith had suspected. 

“Sir.” He nodded briefly at the wizard, but didn’t lower his wand. “There are Dementors in those ruins.”

“I know. They are waiting for you to deliver the muggles.” Greenbrand smiled as if it was the most normal thing in the world to deal deliver people to soul-sucking monsters.

On the other hand, those were muggles, not real people. And Keith got paid for it. Was there really any difference between delivering sacrifices to a dark wizard, or food to Dementors? As long as he got paid?

Keith decided there wasn’t. He started to levitate the captured muggles over to the ruins. The first drew a half a dozen of the monsters, circling around him, dipping up and down as they fed. Keith didn’t watch - he was busy levitating the next victim, the mother, over. But he watched the Dementors feeding after he had floated the last muggle child over to the ruins. It was a terrible yet enthralling sight, one few ever had seen outside the Execution Chamber in the Ministry.

“Fascinating, isnt it, Mister Yennington?” Greenbrand’s tone had a slightly amused note. 

“I guess so.” Keith answered. He caught the bag floating over to him and checked its contents. It was the agreed sum, in galleons.

“You’ve shown the right attitude, Mister Yennington. Would you be interested in a more permanent position? Better paid, and more secure.”

Keith valued his independence. He also valued gold, and Greenbrand had been his most generous and steadiest employer so far. Most skilled too - the missions he had been sent on had been well-planned and prepared. Though Greenbrand also was the most dangerous employer he had ever worked for. Keith had known that even before this job. And the mercenary just had a strong feeling that if he didn’t accept Greenbrand’s offer he would be very unlikely to walk or apparate away from this place. 

“Yes, sir. I would be interested.”

*****

Draco Malfoy winced while measuring the ground manticore spikes twice. He had to be absolutely sure the amount was correct. Professor Snape’s temper had grown even worse over the holidays, a feat Draco hadn’t thought would be possible. The Potions Master was still favoring Slytherin, in as much as taking slightly less points from them for minimal mistakes than from the other houses could be called ‘favoring’. He had even punished Draco for having a slightly off-color potion in the first lesson after the break!

Pansy, working next to Draco, actually ducked when she heard their Head of House berate the Gryffindor Patil over her mise en place until the girl was crying. They should have been laughing at the sight of a crying Gryffindor! But the last time they did that, they had been punished as well for ‘disturbing the class’ - were they Gryffindors or Slytherins?

Life wasn’t fair! First, he had to suffer through a boring Yuletide, without the gift he had truly wanted, another muggle, and then his aunt and her husband and brother-in-law were murdered in prison. Hah! As if anyone would believe that - it was clear that the Ministry had them and the other political prisoners executed and covered it up, to prevent them from breaking out and joining the fight for the cause! Draco had tried to comfort his mother, but she hadn’t been as broken up over the loss of her only remaining sister - blood traitors didn’t count - as he had expected. Maybe she had learned to control her emotions better since his summer vacation.

Father had been in a bad mood for the whole break, though. He had been worse than during the same  time last summer, actually, and had almost killed one of their elves for botching breakfast. Draco hadn’t dared to ask for his gift after watching that spectacle and had spent most of his time at home in his room, reading and dreaming of battles and other things.

Finally, his potion was ready, and with the perfect color too! Pansy had managed an acceptable potion as well, he guessed, from the lack of truly nasty comments her effort netted her when she turned it in. Draco, as the best potioneer in class, received even a nod - high praise from the professor, at least this year. He was confident he’d ace the O.W.L. and show the mudblood and the blood traitor what purebloods could do!

On his way back to his dorms he walked past Potter. The rude blood traitor hadn’t even offered him his condolences for the loss of his aunt. No manners at all. Draco didn’t say anything, of course. These days, no one said anything in Potions unless asked by the teacher. Not when coming, not when going.

*****

Keith Yennington looked at the small, derelict house he had been called to, after a quick tour over half of Britain - probably to throw off pursuit. His employer was a careful man indeed.

“Good evening, Mister Yennington.”

Keith jerked around. Greenbrand had snuck up on him again. Wait, that was not Greenbrand! But he sounded and looked as confident, and as dangerous - or even more so. Keith licked his lips, suddenly nervous, and nodded.

“Do you have the blood traitor I asked for?” The other wizard hadn’t presented himself, but he was wearing very expensive robes. Definitely a rich one. Handsome too.

Keith nodded again and pulled out a small stick figure. 

“Perfect. Follow me inside.”

The derelict house had a quite new looking basement. And an even newer looking ritual circle. Keith was no expert, but the whole setup looked like it was meant for a dark ritual. He had expected something like this, after all the work he had done for Greenbrand. So he placed the stick figure on what he thought was the spot for the sacrifice without any hesitation. After a confirming glance at the other wizard Keith ended the spell. In front of him the figure turned back into the wizard he had kidnapped in Knockturn Alley last night. The man was bound and gagged, but conscious - and deathly afraid. With good reason, of course.

“Perfect. I have been keeping an eye on you for months now, Mister Yennington, and you have impressed me. Skilled, cool under fire, ruthless, and willing to do what’s needed to save our country from sliding into barbarism.” 

“I assume you are Greenbrand’s boss.” 

“Greenbrand is just a minor tool, in a manner of speaking. I have many followers, all carefully chosen.” 

The young man - he couldn’t be older than 25, Keith thought - made a small gesture, and a figure stepped out of the shadows behind him. Another wizard able to sneak up on him, Keith thought with a frown. No, it was a witch, he realised, as she stepped out of the shadows. A very beautiful witch, with long, pitch black hair that fell in a wild mane down her back, and a body to… Merlin, this was Bellatrix Lestrange! She was supposed to be dead! 

The witch laughed at his reaction, clearly amused, and clearly as mad as her reputation claimed. First Dementors, then Bellatrix Lestrange… who was this man? Keith stared at the wizard, then gasped when the witch fell to her knees at the man’s side. There was only one wizard who that witch would kneel to, Keith knew. The realization made him feel as if his blood had been transfigured into ice.

“Indeed, Mister Yennington. I, Lord Voldemort, have returned! More powerful than ever! I have freed my faithful followers from Azkaban! I have taken control of the Dementors! I will rule Britain! And I am offering you a place in the ranks of my most loyal followers! Riches and power await you! What do you say?”

Faced with the Dark Lord’s offer, there was only one answer that wouldn’t see Keith die. He knelt down at once and bowed his head deeply. “Milord.”

“Very good. Raise, Keith, it is time to mark you.” Voldemort looked at the kneeling witch and nodded. She disappeared at once, with the typical sound of an apparition. “The granting of my mark is always done in private, with only me and the new Death Eater present. And a sacrifice, of course, to be killed in cold blood.” He pointed his wand at the struggling, moaning captive. 

“Avada Kedavra!” 

*****

Far away, in Scotland, Harry Potter woke up screaming with pain and with his scar bleeding all over his pillow and face. 

******* **


	21. Horcruxes

**Chapter 21: Horcruxes**

_Harry Potter was pointing his wand at the wizard tied up with magical ropes before him. The man’s eyes were wide open, he was desperately struggling with his bounds, and probably trying to scream - but the enchanted gag in his mouth prevented any sound from reaching Harry’s ears. He heard himself speak in the voice of a stranger: “And a sacrifice, of course, to be killed in cold blood."_

_With that he pointed his wand at the captive. “Avada Kedavra!” A green curse hit the man, and he was dead at once._

_“Kneel, Keith, and hold out your left arm!” Harry saw the other man kneel and hold out his arm, trembling slightly. A gesture with his wand and a mumbled word had the man frozen in his position, only his eyes able to move still. Harry stripped the sleeve away with a wave of his wand, enjoying how Keith’s eyes suddenly widened in fear._

_He pointed his wand at the corpse, waving the tip around and speaking words in a language he didn’t know. Just hearing the guttural, alien words made him want to vomit though. The corpse shuddered for a moment, then was still again. Trailing green light from the tip, his wand rose again._

_More words he didn’t understand left Harry’s lips. With each of them, the wand glowed more brightly, and yet the room - a basement - they were in grew darker. He held his wand in front of his face, then softly blew on it, and a shiver ran down his spine as a green-hued breath left his mouth, swirling around the tip of the wand._

_Harry briefly closed his eyes, taking three deep breaths, then opened them with a smile, staring at the man, whose eyes betrayed his horror. Grinning, he kneeled down himself and started to chant those terrible words again. His glowing wand was pointed at the uncovered arm of the frozen wizard, and he slowly, ever so slowly, moved it towards the inside of the lower arm._

_The skin of the man started to blacken even before his wand touched it, the hairs around it shriveling up and disappearing into smoke. Then the tip of his wand met skin with a sizzling sound, and the stench of burning flesh reached his nose. The green mist swirling around the wand slowly seeped into the burning tissue, and where it disappeared, new, shiny black skin appeared, forming a symbol. Horrified, Harry realised it was the Dark Mark. The unnatural skin rippled as it covered the burned part of the arm, shimmering with green light until the mark was complete._

_Only then did Harry stop speaking in that unknown, alien tongue, and rested for a bit, panting with exhaustion. After a few minutes, he addressed at the still frozen wizard. “Are you terrified, Keith? Do you understand what exactly happened?”_

_He ran a finger over the Dark Mark. “Not many know what exactly I did, but most with at least some knowledge understand that it was among the greatest deeds of the Dark Arts. Not that you will remember it.” Grinning, Harry pointed his wand at the man’s forehead._

_“Obliviate!”_

Reliving his vision a second time in Dumbledore’s pensieve had been almost as horrible as suffering through it the first time, Harry Potter thought. At least his scar was not bleeding anymore and he didn’t feel physical pain.

“Oh, Harry!”

Hermione hugged him hard - almost too hard. Despite her grip he felt his girlfriend tremble - seeing his memories must have shocked her more than finding him covered with blood in his bed after he had called her through her torc. A brief look showed Dumbledore’s head was still in the pensieve, and so he held her, held on to her, until neither of them was trembling anymore.

Harry wasn’t quite certain if his dorm mates had believed their claim that he had been just having a nightmare - Ron surely hadn’t - but at least Hermione had cleaned him and his bed up with a few spells before the other boys had seen the blood. Judging by the expressions Harry had seen when he had left with Hermione, Seamus and Dean might think Hermione would be ‘cheering up her Patron in private', so they were unlikely to suspect that the two had gone straight to Dumbledore. Even Neville might assume that, but he’d consider them a couple, not a Patron and his retainer. The rumors this would spawn though… but it was better than Voldemort finding out that Harry could see through his eyes.

The two had separated again when Dumbledore withdrew his head from the pensieve, at last, and to Harry’s shock the usually unflappable Headmaster looked shaken. What had he seen in Harry’s memories that would cause such a reaction? Not even seeing Voldemort resurrected had had such an effect on the old wizard.

Dumbledore didn’t say anything, he just reached out, and from his ‘bottomless apartment’ a bottle flew into his hand, followed by a glass. He filled and drank one glass, then another, before he even looked at Harry and Hermione, who were both staring at him. Harry felt concern and not a small amount of fear by then.

“Ah. I am afraid I have grave news.” The Headmaster sighed, then started to walk towards his office. “As much as it is a cliche, I think you better sit down to hear this, Mister Potter.” His smile was wry, but didn’t reach his eyes, and his voice sounded hollow even as he joked. He took a quick detour into his bedchamber, as he called it, while the two students went on, holding hands.

Hermione sat down close to Harry when they took their seats in front of the Headmaster’s desk - close enough that he could reach out and touch her thigh, Harry realised. He would have preferred for her to sit in his lap, and from the look he exchanged with her, she shared that wish - Dumbledore’s proclamation must have scared her as much as it had scared himself. But it wouldn’t be proper. Fawkes had hopped off his perch and flown over to the old wizard at once, dropping the lemon drops he had stolen so he could sing to him.

For a while all three listened to the phoenix’s song, and gradually, Harry started to feel better, and his girlfriend had calmed down as well. He patted her thigh, briefly, when Dumbledore seemed to focus on Fawkes, and she held his hand in return.

Finally the Headmaster spoke, though at first it sounded as if he was talking to himself more than to them. “Ah…. Tom, I did not think you were that devious - or that evil. Those fools…” Shaking his head, he pulled a small box from his robes, tapped it with his wand to enlarge it, then opened it, revealing the remains of a small book bound in black leather, arcane runes decorating the cover. “Have you seen this book before?”

Fawkes glared at it, or so Harry thought. It was hard to read a bird’s expression, but the phoenix’s stance looked aggressive to him.

Harry shook his head, but Hermione bit her lower lip. Harry nodded at her, and she spoke up. “I am not sure… it looks a bit familiar… those runes…”

“It is what caused Miss Weasley to be controlled by Voldemort, back in your second year.” The Headmaster carefully put the box down on his desk without touching the book inside it.

Harry tensed up while Hermione gasped. Dumbledore nodded at them. “Indeed. It was a dark artifact, and very dangerous - if Miss Weasley had been in its thrall for some time longer, she would have lost her life, maybe even her soul.” He smiled sadly.

“What exactly was it, Headmaster?” Harry asked, before Hermione hurt herself, trying to keep her curiosity in check.

Dumbledore smiled sadly. “It was a Horcrux, containing a part of Voldemort’s soul. As I found out he created it when he was but 16 years old, at Hogwarts even. Under my very nose, one could say, even if I wasn’t the school’s Headmaster at the time. Back then he seemed to be just a brilliant if ruthless student, and he was still using his real name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

“WHAT?” Hermione was staring at the Headmaster. “The Dark Lord is a muggleborn?” The young witch blushed after realizing her faux pas - as Harry’s retainer, she couldn’t interrupt a conversation between her Patron and the Headmaster.

The old wizard raised an eyebrow at her outburst. “It’s quite a surprise to find someone familiar with that name.”

Harry had to agree - he wouldn’t have recognized the name. Hermione’s blush didn’t fade, she flinched, embarrassed by her outburst, understandable though it was. She looked at Harry, and he nodded at her, indicating she could speak now.

Hermione met Dumbledore’s eyes, now without flinching. “I researched the lives of some of the best muggleborn students of Hogwarts. But Tom Riddle died shortly after graduating. When he visited his muggle family all of them, including himself, were murdered by an unknown wizard…”

“As you no doubt just started to suspect, and as I have discovered, although only years after the fact, it was Tom who murdered his family. He faked his death. A year later he appeared as the last heir of the Gaunt Family, direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin, the offspring of Merope Gaunt and Fitzgerald Cranstonwickle, both deceased. His mother, abandoned by his father before Tom was born, had been a Gaunt and had died in childbed. That much was true. That Cranstonwickle, a pureblood wizard, had raised and taught him in private was a complete fabrication though. But with the alleged father dead in the war against Grindelwald and the surviving Gaunts confirming the story - before they conveniently died in a potion brewing accident - there was no one to expose that lie.”

“What about his Patron? Wouldn’t the Oath have prevented him from doing such things?” Hermione looked rather agitated.

“His Patron, Aloisius Breston, was a brave, but not very bright and far too trusting wizard. I am not certain how he did it, but Tom must have managed to trick him into allowing him to break the Oath, somehow - for a student who was so skilled in the Dark Arts that he managed to create a horcrux at the age of 16, such a feat would not be impossible at all. Breston did not remember anything, and with Tom apparently dead he had no cause to suspect anything either.” Harry thought he detected a faint hint of grudging respect in Dumbledore’s voice.

“Do his followers know that their Dark Lord is a muggleborn?” Harry asked.

“Are you thinking of revealing this information?” The Headmaster smiled slightly.

Harry nodded. Given how much hatred for ‘mudbloods’ the Death Eaters had, such a revelation should reduce Voldemort’s power by quite a bit.

“Alas, such a revelation would be dismissed as a cheap lie. There is no proof anyone would believe. Tom Riddle is officially dead, and has been so for decades, and Voldemort is legally the head of the Gaunt Family.” Dumbledore smiled ruefully. “If I had known all this when Voldemort started his first war, it could have done some good. But now? As we know thanks to Harry, Voldemort does not even look like Tom Riddle anymore.”

Harry wanted to argue further - he almost desperately needed to hurt Voldemort somehow, to foil at least some of his plans - but the Headmaster had sounded quite convincing. So he changed the topic to something he and his retainer needed to know. “What exactly is a Horcrux?”

“Simply put, a Horcrux can be described as a soul anchor. It contains part of a wizard’s soul, and as long as it exists, the wizard cannot truly die. His soul will not pass on, but become a shade. Unlike a ghost, it is able to possess creatures and humans. But its unnatural nature harms and sickens the body, causing it to slowly decay, and once it is dead, the shade will be forced to seek a new host. It is a truly wretched existence.”

“That’s what happened to Professor Quirrell,” Harry stated. To decay and putrefy while still being alive, his body possessed by the Dark Lord… he shuddered at the horrifying fate the teacher must have suffered, and Hermione’s grip on him tightened in response.

“Exactly. Most wizards using a Horcrux would be limited to possess weak-willed creatures. Animals, and lowly ones at that. They would have to rely on followers or allies to help them possess or otherwise acquire a human body. Voldemort though is far more powerful than the average dark wizard. Even as a shade he managed to ambush and defeat poor Quirinius, allowing him to take control of his body.” Dumbledore sighed loudly. “Most Horcruxes are simple, but evil things. The results of one of the foulest rituals known to wizardkind, they corrupt everything and everyone near them, and are generally very hard to destroy.” He pointed at the book. ”As you can see, they can be destroyed though, if one knows how.”

Harry saw Hermione inching forward on her seat, and he put his hand on her thigh, stopping her. She was too close already to that cursed book, in his opinion.

“This book was not a normal Horcrux though - it contained not just a part of Voldemort’s soul, but also his own memories at the time he created it. Tom created an intelligent item, a copy of his own mind, able to reason, plan and even communicate with others. An unparalleled feat, to be honest,” Dumbledore continued his explanation. “When I destroyed it, I hoped that Voldemort’s shade would disappear with it. It did not, as you know.”

“He made more than one Horcrux,” Hermione whispered to herself. Harry wasn’t certain if he should be proud or concerned that his retainer was so quick to see what Voldemort had done.

“Yes, he created more than one Horcrux.” The Headmaster looked at Hermione, apparently having overheard her as well. “If I had known that beforehand, I would have kept the book, to see if it could be used to find the other Horcruxes. Hindsight, as they say, is always perfect.”

Harry suddenly froze. If Dumbledore was so shocked after seeing what he had seen, did that mean…? “Did we just see Voldemort creating a Horcrux?”

Dumbledore slowly nodded. “Yes, Mister Potter.”

“All his Dark Marks are Horcruxes?!” Harry exclaimed. After what he had heard, that meant…

“If he he has done this with all of his marked Death Eaters, then all of them are Horcruxes, carrying a part of Voldemort’s soul within themselves.”

Both Harry and Hermione were silent after hearing that, trying to understand what that meant. After a few minutes Hermione was biting her lips, and looked at her Patron. He nodded at her, She addressed the Headmaster once more: “He would have had to split his soul dozens of times for all his followers. Didn’t that harm or at least hinder him?”

The Headmaster smiled at the question. “Ah, Miss Granger, it does harm him - but not in the way you might hope for. A soul is not finite. It is not diminished by splitting off a part of it - it cannot be diminished. Even the destruction of this book has not diminished Voldemort’s soul.” He sighed. “But the act of splitting one’s soul to create a Horcrux taints it. It corrupts the soul. Even if he dies with all of his Horcruxes gone, Voldemort cannot enter the afterlife. He will forever be lost between the realms. An existence far worse than death, far worse than oblivion even. It is one of the worst prices the Dark Arts can demand, and he paid it willingly.”

No one said anything for another minute after that somber declaration. Then Harry had another, even worse thought. “Headmaster?” He looked directly at the old wizard. “I have a link to Voldemort in my scar. I can see what he does, sometimes. Like when he was resurrected. And when he created a Horcrux. And the prophecy said he’d mark me.”

Hermione, picking up what he was thinking, was shaking her head and whispering “No. No. No!” while she grabbed his hand.

Harry went on even as his girlfriend started sobbing: “Am I a Horcrux too?”

Dumbledore smiled and shook his head. “No. As you have unfortunately seen, creating a Horcrux takes a ritual. It needs not just a sacrifice, but also preparations and intent. Voldemort had neither the time, nor the opportunity, nor the intention to make you into a Horcrux. He wanted to kill you. ”

He pointed at Harry’s scar. “Something happened that night, Harry. Something that linked you and him, through your scar. But you did not become a Horcrux. Voldemort has marked you, true - but not with his Dark Mark.”

Harry smiled, immensely relieved. The Headmaster’s words made sense. Hermione was still crying, but with relief, not grief, and was still holding his hand, hard enough to hurt. He didn’t mind at all.

He, they, could deal with this. Together.

*****

Hermione Granger had trouble falling asleep, despite the fact that it had been very late when she and Harry had returned to the dorms. The Headmaster’s revelations and explanations were just too disturbing for the young witch. While it was an immense relief to know that Harry was not a Horcrux, despite his link to Voldemort, the things she had heard had left her in a near frantic state.

Dumbledore had been talking about the afterlife and souls as if they were well-known facts. He had mentioned magic that affected a soul, and the consequences of it, as if it had been observed and tested. And he was Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of Britain, not a man prone to accept things as true just because others thought they were.

The topic of souls and the afterlife was something Hermione hadn’t wanted to think about, ever since she had started at Hogwarts. If souls existed, if there was a life after death, what did that say about religion? Most of the wizards in Britain followed Pagan gods - the Roman Pantheon. But as far as she knew from History of Magic and ‘Hogwarts: A History’, the British wizards had been mostly Christian for a millennium, until the Witch Hunts made most of them turn their back on Christianity, and embrace their old gods again. If the wizards knew that the afterlife was real, wouldn’t they also know which religion got it right? Why would they switch back and forth for good, but rather political reasons if that could impact their fate after death? And if there was an afterlife, was there a god, or gods?

The young witch pressed her teeth together and forced that train of thoughts away. She didn’t want to, couldn’t deal with such disturbing questions. Not now. She had to focus on helping Harry. If each of Voldemort’s marked followers was a Horcrux, then the Dark Lord couldn’t be killed for good until all of them were dead - destroyed. And Harry wouldn’t be safe from that madman until then. The prophecy, and the way Harry - and herself, and their friends - had defeated him and foiled his plans in the past - would make sure Voldemort would never leave them be.

This link, through Harry’s scar, was the key. It offered them insights into Voldemort’s actions, true, but it also endangered Harry. Not just psychologically, but if Voldemort ever managed to use the link himself… she’d have to find out what exactly Harry’s scar was, so they could take measures to protect him.

But she also had to research Horcruxes, and the Dark Mark. The mark… When she had talked to Fleur about the tattoos many of Fleur’s relatives wore, the French witch had told her that they served to track them, in case they were kidnapped. And the Veela had been worried about revealing too much, fearing others could track them through it. If the Dark Mark followed the same principle, then Death Eaters could be tracked through it. Even if it was not a variant of the Protean Charm, but something unique, the principles would be similar enough - if each marked wizard or witch carried a part of Voldemort’s soul, then that would already link them together.

But tracking was just one thing. There was magic that worked through links, affecting a part to affect the whole. Voodoo was famous for such spells. It wasn’t something taught in Britain, as it was considered part of the Dark Arts. But as Sirius had told her and Harry, the Ministry considered a lot of perfectly acceptable and safe spells ‘dark’. Hermione would have to look into that matter. For Harry, of course.

Focusing on those thoughts, the young witch finally fell asleep. She didn’t think about how Dumbledore had mentioned that the Dark Arts might have let Voldemort break his Patron Oath. But she didn’t forget it either.

*****

“Good evening, Severus. Have a seat, please.” Albus Dumbledore waved, and a comfortable chair appeared in front of his desk. The Potions Master sat down, his usual scowling expression lightening slightly. Fawkes trilled and the head of House Slytherin glared at the phoenix, but that too, was normal.

“You wanted to speak to me, Headmaster?” Severus sat straight and stiff, but there was a touch of boredom in his expression. He probably thought this was another talk about his abrasive manners in the classroom, and outside of it. In a manner of speaking, he was correct.

“I did. Though it is not a school matter I need to talk to you about.” Albus saw that Severus understood at once what the topic of their meeting would be. Not that it was difficult - there was scant else but school matters and Voldemort that the two talked about, not since Albus had refused to teach the younger wizard Alchemy, years ago.

“I haven’t been contacted yet, or I would have informed you at once.” Severus snapped. His temper was showing - though to be honest, Albus might have asked for news on that front a bit too often lately.

“It is not about that either,” Albus said mildly. Severus’s expression showed his annoyance - and his impatience. Albus went on before he could snap again. “It’s about the Dark Mark. I have recently had a rather disturbing thought, a theory I would like to check.” A theory he absolutely needed to test, in truth.

Severus gripped his left forearm with his right hand, his thumb rubbing over the spot where his mark was located. “What theory?” Now his face was expressionless, betraying nothing, and neither did his voice.

“It concerns the way it was created. Sooner or later, Voldemort will recruit more Death Eaters, if he has not already done so.”

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Severus pulled his left sleeve back, exposing the mark that was the result and sign of the worst mistake of his life. Albus drew his wand and started to cast. He had examined Severus’s Dark Mark before, of course, and had not found anything but a clever if twisted variant of the Protean Charm. But that had been years ago, and he had not suspected what he now knew Voldemort was able to do.

At first glance, it still looked like a deceptively simple mark. Barely more than a magical tattoo. But a few detection spells revealed the tracking charm and the hex that allowed Voldemort to hurt Severus through the mark. Both were hidden well - not many would have found them. Fewer still would have suspected that there might be something else, buried even deeper in the complex spells of the mark. Albus certainly hadn’t, back when he investigated the mark for the last time.

He knew better now, and he was one of the few who was both skilled and experienced enough to descend into the maze of enchantments Voldemort had woven into his mark. The Headmaster cast another spell, one he had picked up from a Curse-Breaker in Egypt in the 1920s. He didn’t like to use it, since casting it required the fervent desire to gain knowledge no matter the cost - an attitude that had lured many a student towards the Dark Arts, if it was not held in check. Should Miss Granger ever learn this spell… he shuddered at the thought.

But while he was not as arrogant to think that he was immune to that particular temptation, it wasn’t one of his biggest foibles. Not anymore. And he needed to know. For his own sake, and for Harry’s, and for Severus’s. And with that thought in mind, he closed his eyes and focused. He wanted to know the deepest, most hidden secrets of this mark. He needed to know them. Nothing else mattered but gaining this knowledge. Nothing!

Opening his eyes, he stared at the mark as if it was his nemesis. And it was - keeping that knowledge from him, hiding it it, hurting him by denying him! He pointed his wand, won from his last love, at this stubborn obstacle. “Detege Notitia!”

Before his eyes, the web of enchantments lit up, growing and unraveling, revealing the strands of magic it had hidden, the dark, foul lines that formed the core of the mark and kept it tethered to Severus. Those strands formed a small web, which held something, something tiny, yet vast. Bright, yet dark. He focused on it, studied it while he fought the nausea, the pain the mere act of observing it was causing him, for as long as he could.

Albus was trembling when he ended the spell, and even as experienced as he was, he barely managed to conjure a bowl before he emptied his stomach into it, shaking and sweating. Fawkes was on his shoulder, rubbing against his head, a comforting and familiar presence.

“Albus! Did you get cursed?” Severus had stood up, wand out. His arm must be hurting as well, Albus knew, but the Potions Master seemed to not even notice as he focused on the Headmaster. “Or is it poison?” His left hand, trembling, dug into his robe and pulled out a vial.

Abus held up a hand while he vanished the bowl and its contents. “No, I am not cursed, nor poisoned. Just… sickened.”

Severus started to cast diagnostic spells, muttering the names of deadly and exotic maladies as he tried to find out what ailed the Headmaster. Albus shook his head, taking deep breaths. “No. No. I am fine.” He wasn’t - but the physical effects of observing a Horcrux from so close, in such detail, would fade soon enough. He had experience with the diary, after all. But the knowledge he had gained… the pain it caused, and would cause… that would not fade quickly, if at all. “Please sit down Severus.”

The younger wizard did, but grudgingly, muttering about stubborn old fools. His concern was touching, and made what Albus had to do even worse.

“I have grave news, Severus. My suspicion has been proven correct.” And he explained.

Severus face had become a mask, devoid of any expression, by the time Albus had finished. “I see. It explains certain… outbursts… of mine, this year.” His voice was cold, controlled. “I am keeping him alive, enabling him to return after death. Supporting him and his plans.”

Albus wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t. “Yes, Severus. You, and, as I suspect, everyone else he has marked.”

“And it is corrupting me. Corrupting my very soul.” The Potions Master snorted. “At least it disproves those students who claim I have no soul.” Albus could see that the younger wizard’s teeth were grinding against each other, jaws clenched together. Despite the attempt at humour, he was deeply shaken, but tried not to show it. Just as he had not shown the pain he had suffered.

Again Albus could only nod and confirm what his friend was stating. “I will look into ways to…”

Severus shook his head. “... to extract the soul shard from me without killing me? That will take you a long time. Time you do not have. Not with him out there, recruiting new followers. He’ll be growing in power and influence far too quickly if you do not spend your time checking his moves.”

The Headmaster knew his friend was right, but he didn’t want to admit it.

“And each day, his influence on me grows, pushing me, prodding me. How long until I start hurting my students?” He snorted. “More than I already did, to be precise. How long until you cannot trust me anymore? How long until I cannot trust me anymore? Until I am his mere tool, doing his bidding?”

“There are ways to prevent this.” Draught of Living Death would keep Severus in a death-like coma. Petrification. Transfiguration.

“Yes. To keep me from hurting others. But nothing will keep his poison out of my soul. Nothing will stop the corruption.” He glared at the Headmaster, daring him to contradict him. Albus didn’t. “It was manageable, sort of - or just very, very slow - while he was but a shade, drifting. But now…” He shook his head. “I won’t sacrifice my soul, Albus. I’ve sacrificed everything else.”

Suddenly, Albus understood. He should have expected this - he knew the amount of self-loathing Severus was carrying around. “You plan to…”

“Yes.”

Albus closed his eyes. There was nothing he could say.

“But I want my death to hurt him. As much as possible. I want him to curse the day he marked me when he hears of what I have done.” Severus smiled at Albus, and the Headmaster almost shivered at the hatred that shone out of the man’s eyes.

“Tell me the best way to achieve that, Albus!”

*****

“Why are we always the ones who get the high-profile, mired in politics, no one sane wants to touch them, cases?” Kenneth Fenbrick complained loudly on his way to the Floo connections in the entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic.

“I think that’s because you tried to seduce Madam Bones,” Bertha Limmington stated, easily keeping pace with him, her red Auror robes flowing around her legs, parting as needed to avoid hindering her movements.

“What? I did not! Where did you hear that?” The Auror whipped his head around, staring at his partner, and almost walked into a pillar as a result. Trying to sleep with your boss was a bad idea. And stupid too, since there were a lot of young witches who were as pretty, and far more easily impressed by Auror robes and a charming smile.

“Or maybe it’s because you didn’t try to seduce her.” Bertha looked at him seriously, then her lips twitched and she smirked.

“Gah!” Kenneth huffed, and lengthened his steps. When he had wished for Bertha to loosen up, he hadn’t meant she should start teasing him. Well, not that way. She even giggled as she followed him! He was supposed to be the one teasing her!

He reached the closest Floo connection and dipped his hand into the powder container next to it - oversized, since it was a public floo.

“Malfoy Manor!”

*****

Kenneth whistled at the sight in the study of Lucius Malfoy. “Malfoy and Snape? Did someone kill both of them, or did they kill each other?” He wasn’t fond of either of the men, but a case was a case. The study looked mostly undamaged though, so that would indicate a quick fight, with few stray spells.

“Snape’s wand shows that a Sectumsempra was the last spell he cast.” Bertha was crouching next to the dead Potions Master.

“That would fit the wounds on Malfoy. It was was quite a popular spell among Death Eaters in the last war.” Kenneth wasn’t about to kneel down on the blood-covered floor next to the wizard’s desk. Malfoy had been cut in half and had made a mess on his expensive carpet, whose enchantments had prevented the blood from soaking into it, but had not cleaned it up either. “His wand shows a Killing Curse as his last spell.”

“Snape died to poison, not to the Killing Curse.” Bertha was carefully checking Snape’s robes.

Kenneth approved of her caution - who knew what kind of poisons the man had carried? - and followed her example with Malfoy’s robe. “So he missed, and Snape didn’t?”

“The damage to the wall next to the door matches the effect of a Killing Curse impacting on an enchanted wall.” Bertha nodded to the wall while she levitated half a dozen stoppered vials out of Snape’s pockets.

Kenneth waved his wand over the two parts of Malfoy’s corpse. “Malfoy was poisoned as well, but died to the spell. What symmetry!” That comment earned him a glare from his partner. She didn’t like him joking around while they were working. Tough!

“With all the protective spells on the robes it’ll be hard to determine who poisoned who, and when,” Bertha stated. Kenneth knew the enchantments, unless destroyed, would have recovered in the time it took for them to arrive, so they would give no hints to what spells were cast before.

“Yes. Especially since Malfoy had enough gold to buy any exotic poison he wanted, and Snape could have brewed most of them himself.” Kenneth sighed. “And here’s an unstoppered vial, probably poison, in a hidden pocket in Malfoy’s robes. What a mess!” He was more annoyed at the amount of work this case would cause for him, than at the death of two men he honestly despised. He wouldn’t say so, of course. Too easy for such remarks to get back to the Minister. “Let’s talk to Mrs Malfoy. She saw Snape arrive. Maybe she has seen or heard something useful.” Kenneth didn’t expect much - witches like Mrs Malfoy tended to neither hear nor see anything, unless they could personally benefit from it.

*****

“According to Narcissa Malfoy, Severus Snape came to visit Lucius Malfoy, rather late in the evening. He seemed agitated, but not aggressive, and she didn’t follow them into her husband’s study. She was alerted by a house elf a bit later, but only arrived to find both of them dead.” Bertha was speaking in a precise, almost monotone manner. Kenneth often found it aggravating, but since she was currently giving their report to Amelia Bones, the head of the DMLE, he couldn’t complain.

Madam Bones nodded. “So, we have an inconclusive crime scene, and a lack of witnesses.”

“Not even the house elves heard anything. Malfoy took his privacy dead seriously,” Kenneth spoke up, then tried not to flinch when both Bertha and Bones stared at him. Two attractive witches, and neither appreciated his wit.

Bertha continued. “We proceeded to search Severus Snape’s quarters at Hogwarts and speak with his colleagues among the staff.”

‘Colleagues’ was correct, Kenneth thought - Snape certainly hadn’t had any friends. Not at Hogwarts, and not anywhere else, in his opinion.

“Everyone was quite cooperative. According to their testimonies, he had been far more irritated and angrier in the last two terms than usual. Headmaster Dumbledore stated that he had several talks with him concerning his abrasive attitude towards students.”

“Any particular target of his anger?” Bones asked.

“No. Even his own house had started to complain according to the Headmaster. But no one had heard him mentioning Lucius Malfoy.”

Kenneth took over. “Searching his quarters though was quite productive.” He pointed to a small book floating next to them. “He kept a journal for the last few months. Very interesting.”

“Give me the summary.” Bones leaned forward, staring at the small book.

“It details how he noticed that he had started to feel more aggressive. Angrier. Even violent. All after his Dark Mark had grown, well, darker. As dark as it had been when You-Know-Who had still been alive.”

“When did that happen?” Bones was staring at him now, and Kenneth felt like an Auror cadet again. It was worse than meeting Dumbledore.

“Right after the incident at the fourth task, Ma’am.” At least he didn’t stand up and salute. “But the last page is the most important. He wrote that he planned to meet Lucius Malfoy and demand answers. Apparently he suspected Malfoy to know about the reasons behind this since, and I quote ‘Malfoy was the Dark Lord’s right hand. If he is back, Malfoy would know. He is marked as well’. Snape also wrote that he has left the journal in case something happened to him at the Malfoy’s.”

“Could this journal be faked?”

“The preservation spells on it make judging the precise age of the entries difficult, but the writing is his. It also has traces of older spells on it. Presumably to hide and protect it,” Bertha answered.

“Does Dumbledore know about this journal?”

“We confronted him with it. He said he wished he would have known of this earlier, to avoid such a tragedy.”

“That sounds like what he would say.” Bones snorted. “Do we have evidence that Malfoy had been growing angrier and more violent as well during the last few months?” Bones expression didn’t show any of her thoughts.

Bertha hesitated. “No solid evidence, but some of Narcissa Malfoy’s statements could have been hinting at such a development.”

“Could she have killed both of them?”

Kenneth’s partner nodded. “It would have been technically possible, but her wand was clean, and she offered to take veritaserum to support her testimony.” There were ways around that, of course, obliviation first and foremost, but it was very hard to replace a memory without leaving telltale signs.

“And it would have been quite a feat for Mrs Malfoy to surprise and overcome both her husband and Snape, and then arrange the situation in a manner that it looks like they killed each other,” Kenneth added. “Not impossible, but a bit far-fetched.”

“Narcissa could also have been working with either of them against the other.” Bones added. “That’s all speculation so far, though. To sum it up: The evidence gathered until now points to the Dark Mark influencing Snape into becoming more violent, to the point where he is so worried, he confronts Malfoy, who he suspects to be under the same influence, and he expected to be in danger during the visit. The two head into Malfoy’s study, and are found dead a short time later.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Kenneth nodded.

“So, we do not have anything solid yet to crack this case.” Sighing, Bones leaned back in her seat. Kenneth didn’t envy her right then. She would be under a lot of pressure from the Minister and the Wizengamot to solve the murder of such a prominent and well-connected wizard.

“Ma’am. Do you believe You-Know-Who is back?” Kenneth hated how weak his voice sounded when he asked, but to imagine the Dark Lord returned...

Bones looked grim. “We don’t have anything more solid than the speculation of a dead man who was, by his own accounts, mentally influenced while he wrote. That’s not exactly solid evidence.”

It didn’t mean that she didn’t believe, of course. But Kenneth wouldn’t push the issue.

“Anything else? I’ll have to inform the Minister, who is still shocked at losing his ‘close friend’ in such a manner.”

“We’re still waiting for the analysis from the potioneers to identify the poisons used. But I think a search of the entire Malfoy Manor might be helpful in determining what exactly Malfoy had at hand.” Bertha presented a parchment to the head of the DMLE.

Bones nodded, signed the order and handed it back. “Search it.”

*****

Ron Weasley stared at the headline of the Daily Prophet Hermione had just received. ‘Malfoy and Snape dead - Dark Mark at fault?’ and ‘Diary of a Death Eater: Is the Dark Lord back?’ He glanced at Harry and Hermione, but his two best friends looked as shocked as he felt. They hadn’t known about that either then. And Snape and Draco Malfoy had been missing from Hogwarts since yesterday. So that had been the reason for the Auror visit! “Merlin’s Balls! Those rumors had been right! Snape was killed!”

Hermione was devouring the articles, with Harry reading over her shoulder. Ron craned his head, then stood up and followed Harry’s example. That was more important than eating.

It didn’t take long to read both articles - Skeeter hadn’t exactly written books. But what she had written… Ron shook his head. “Snape and Lucius Malfoy killed each other?” It made no sense to him. If they were influenced by the Horcruxes, wouldn’t they work together instead?

“Apparently,” Hermione said, her expression leaving no doubt that she didn’t think that had happened.

All over the Great Hall, students were clustered together, discussing the shocking news. Their friends were no exception.

“How did Rita get this information?” Luna asked. “She must have violated some laws to get that much inside information!” The blonde Ravenclaw pouted, seemingly more concerned with the scoop the competition of her father’s magazine had managed than with the murder of a teacher or the possible return of the Dark Lord.

“I am more interested in knowing why Fudge didn’t suppress this. Malfoy was one of his closest friends, after all.” Ron stated while making room for Padma to sit down next to him, pushing Ginny a bit more towards Neville. His sister didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s easy: Malfoy was close to Fudge, but Snape was close to Dumbledore. Anyone attacking either over this would be attacking both,” Neville answered.

“I guess that explains why Snape has been so nasty this year.” Ginny shuddered, and hunched her shoulders, staring at the table. Such a thing would make her remember her first year, and the horrors she had been through, Ron realised with a start.

“It wasn’t as if the git was nice before. But he was really bad this year.” Ron hugged his sister. It was a testament to just how much she was affected by the news that she waited a full minute before she pushed him away.

“I still want to know how Rita heard about this first!” Luna huffed. Aicha patted the blonde’s head and her little genie flittered around both, touching their hair and casting what looked like weak charms on individual strands and locks.

Padma, leaning into Ron, asked what everyone was probably thinking, but no one had dared to ask yet: “Is You-Know-Who back?” She was whispering, but looking at Harry and Hermione, who quickly found themselves the centre of attention in their circle of friends.

Ron of course knew the answer, but had been sworn to secrecy. Harry shifted on his seat, and exchanged glances with Hermione. The witch nodded so slightly, Ron almost missed it, and Harry sighed. He cast a privacy charm on their corner, then leaned forward. “Don’t spread this, OK?” Everyone nodded, and the young wizard continued. “Yes, we believe that the Dark Lord is back. The evidence is quite compelling.”

Upon hearing this, Padma hugged Ron and buried her face into his shoulder, trembling. Their friends shuddered and gasped. All but one.

“Oh! Do you have further evidence? Something not mentioned in the Prophet? Can I have a quote?” Luna had pulled out her oversized pad and quill, already scribbling down notes.

“Luna!” Hermione huffed. “What part of ‘don’t spread this’ didn’t you understand?”

It took Hermione the promise of an exclusive ‘press preview’ for the next Movie Night to convince Luna not to share this. Ron, who had known the blonde witch far longer than anyone else at the table, apart from Ginny of course, couldn’t help thinking that she had planned that. He didn’t mention that to Harry or Hermione, of course. It was too amusing, and they needed all the laughter they could get on such a dark day.

*****

On the way to see Cornelius Fudge, Albus pondered the events of this morning. Rita had written the articles the way Albus had expected her - sensational, exaggerated, and rife with speculation. It had been a good idea to send her a duplicate of Severus’s ‘journal’, with a note stating it was ‘in case someone finds and destroys the original’. Severus probably had enjoyed playing his part in telling Madam Rosmerta to mail a package should the Potions Master fail to retrieve it by the next morning. Her testimony would help making the whole setup more believable, and after the reading the headlines this morning, the witch would have contacted the DMLE at once.

To think Severus had killed himself with Basilisk poison, just to make absolutely certain the Horcruxes were destroyed. It was a very painful way to die. But in a weird, tragic way it fit him. The Potions Master’s life had been full of pain - caused by his own actions, and by those of others. Albus hoped he had found some peace, at last.

Severus last wish had been granted though. By his actions, Voldemort had lost Lucius Malfoy, his richest and most influential follower. The effect of the Dark Marks on a bearer’s mind had been revealed as well, which would make people wary of those who had claimed to have been imperiused, further limiting the Dark Lord’s influence. Some of the smarter potential recruits might even refuse to join him knowing this. And people were now aware of the possibility of Voldemort’s return, without Albus having to expose his own knowledge and sources.

Indeed, Severus had done a lot of damage to Tom’s plans. If only he hadn’t died to achieve it.

“The Minister is waiting inside,” Cornelius’s secretary announced.

“Thank you, Lucas.” Albus smiled at the young man - Ravenclaw, passed his N.E.W.T.s three years ago - and entered into the office of the Minister for Magic.

Cornelius was, understandably, throwing a fit over the revelations in the Daily Prophet. “Albus! Did you know about this?” He waved the newspaper around, causing the pictures of Severus and Lucius on the front page to hold tightly to their frames lest they’d be thrown around.

The Headmaster calmly took a seat. Dealing with the Minister usually took a bit of time, and he was not getting any younger. “What exactly is the problem, Cornelius?”

“What is the problem? Those articles not only claim that I was friends with a Death Eater, but that You-Know-Who is back!” The Minister was taking deep breaths and Albus could see that the enchantments on his robe were working hard to keep the garment from rumpling and him from sweating.

“That seems to be the gist of the articles, yes. Though to be precise, Rita did not claim that the Dark Lord is back, but only speculated that he could be back.”

“Speculation, or not, it’s causing a panic! We have to do something! The Ministry is getting flooded with letters about this, this scare!”

“Understandable, given the circumstances,” Albus stated, carefully avoiding to show any sign of the slight amusement he felt at watching Cornelius fret.

The Minister stopped pacing around and stared at the old wizard. “Merlin’s staff! It’s true then!” He paled and waved at his chair, which quickly rolled over to him. He sagged more than he sat down in it, rubbing his face. “How long have you known?” he asked, without looking at the old wizard.

“I have suspected it for some time. But Severus did not talk to me, not until it was too late.” Which was true.

“It started at the end of the Triwizard Tournament… that scandal with the Faithful and the ritual sacrifice?” Cornelius looked up at Albus. The man had a keen mind for politics, if not for much more.

“It fits the timeline.”

“To think I spent days dealing with the irate High Priest over this!” The Minister took a deep breath. “Dol… Umbridge?”

“It is possible that she was being influenced as well, but I do not think she is marked. You know her views with regards to non-humans.”

“Yes. That crazy witch just lives to make my life difficult. Every Wizengamot member with a Veela mistress complained! What about Azkaban?” A wizard who didn’t know Cornelius very well would think him quite sharp, detecting the Dark Lord’s machinations so quickly, now that he knew about his return, but Albus was quite certain that Cornelius was simply going through all of the problems he had had lately.

“I believe he freed his followers, and replaced them with kidnapped and polyjuiced victims.” Albus answered. “The Unspeakables are working on ways to test for such things.”

“Good, good. As long as the Ministry’s doing something. That explains the disappearances at least. What about the referee scandal?”

“I do not believe the Dark Lord was involved in the fixing of Quidditch matches.” Albus smiled gently.

“It almost turned into a riot when it came out. Quidditch is very important for Britain, Albus!”

Maybe Cornelius was on to something - it wouldn’t hurt to look into it. Much. “The Aurors in charge of the case should be able to find out if there’s someone else involved.”

“And what about Luci… Malfoy and Snape?” Cornelius started to get over his shock.

The Minister would know that both he and Albus were affected by that. Just as Albus had planned. “Severus was struggling bravely against the insidious influence his mark had on him. He died rather than to succumb.”

“That could fit Malfoy too. A double-suicide?”

That would avoid a lot of problems for the Ministry. “It’s possible. Though an investigation of Lucius’s latest activities might uncover some ugly deeds as well as leads to more Death Eaters - or even to Voldemort himself.”

Cornelius cringed at hearing the name of the Dark Lord, but recovered. “Well, he has been acting a bit odd in the last few months. I didn’t mention it, since I thought it was just a passing illness, or stress, but in hindsight…”

Albus nodded. It was a plausible story. “No one else noticed anything either, after all.”

“Exactly!” The Minister beamed at the Headmaster.

“There’s still the matter of the measures to take now, to counter the threat the Dark Lord poses to Britain. And to the Ministry.”

“Yes, yes. The Ministry needs to do something. I trust you already have had some thoughts you’d like to share concerning that?”

Albus genuinely smiled. With Lucius out of the picture, working with Cornelius would be far easier. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

*****

Pansy Parkinson was still in shock a day after the incredible news had been broken by the Daily Prophet. Draco’s father and Professor Snape, both dead! Probably died at each other’s hand even! Draco still had not returned to Hogwarts after he had left for his family emergency. He wouldn’t for a few more days, Pansy thought - he was now the head of the Malfoy Family. His mother as his guardian would be taking care of things, of course, until Draco graduated from Hogwarts and could focus on managing his own affairs.

Pansy laid down on her bed, staring at the ceiling, and snorted. Draco was no Lucius, and no Narcissa. If he knew what was good for him, he’d let his mother manage the estate for a decade or two. Not that Draco knew what was good for him. He’d take over on his 17th birthday and probably end up ruining his family before he reached 20. Merlin! As the new head of his family, he’d probably try to ‘teach Potter his place’ again. She had to ditch the fool sooner rather than later - it wasn’t that long until their sixth year anyway.

She should, but ditching him now, when he had just lost his father, wouldn’t help her reputation. Those who didn’t know Draco well - which was most of the older generation - would only see a half-orphan abandoned by his girlfriend just when he needed her the most.

Suddenly, she had a chilling, horrible thought. Daco had been getting along very well with his father, or so he had told her often enough - even or especially since the end of their 4th year. Right when the Dark Marks had started to grow darker. She started to tremble when she realised the possible implications. Draco’s relationship with his father got better, not worse, while the Dark Lord’s influence on Lucius grew!

It was one thing to stand up for the pureblood rights and privileges, to make sure everyone knew their place. It was another to be mind controlled by a Dark Lord. Standing up, Pansy started to pace, uncaring what her dorm mates thought. She needed a way to ditch Draco, before things got out of hand. And she needed a way to do so that wouldn’t make him angry at her. She needed a good plan, and she needed it fast!

*****

Voldemort threw the newspaper to the ground. That cursed spy! That traitor! Killing Lucius! Exposing him! And after he had taken such pains to hide his return! And then dying, so he couldn’t even punish him for his crimes! And that wretched fool had no family left who could be punished in his stead either.

The Dark Lord glared at the newspaper, at the picture of the traitor, and flicked his wand. The paper burst into flames, and for a brief moment, he enjoyed watching the picture of Snape try to escape the encroaching flames, before getting consumed by them, disappearing in apparent agony.

It didn’t last though. His situation had not changed. He was not strong enough, yet, to challenge the Ministry and Dumbledore openly. His followers whom he had freed from Azkaban still needed time to recover, mentally, if not physically. And they needed wands fitted to them, not the ones taken from mudbloods.

And he needed to find out what Snape knew, and what Dumbledore might now know. Had Lucius talked before his death? Had he been interrogated? The man had known Occlumency, so his thoughts would have been safe - mostly. Veritaserum would have defeated most of that defense, but that would have left traces. The Aurors would know if such a thing had happened, but his best contact to the Ministry had just died. But Macnair might be able to find out more - the man had never been exposed as one of his followers, and should not be under suspicion.

But the others, those who had claimed to have been forced into his service by the Imperius, and had gotten away with it, they would be under suspicion. Under scrutiny. Voldemort hadn’t contacted them so far. They had earned his ire for abandoning him so quickly after his defeat. But he had counted on their contacts, gold and influences to serve him, when he made his bid to take control of the Ministry. That would now be far more difficult.

Sitting down at his desk, the Dark Lord calmed down. He was far from beaten. Those of his followers who hadn’t met him yet now knew he was back, and knew that he was their best hope to stay free and rich. They might not like it, but they had no other choice now than to rally behind his banner. No one else would trust them. He had gold - Malfoy had been quite generous, after a little pressure had been applied. And he had allies and recruits. And given his well-earned reputation, panic would be striking the hearts of the weak, foolish population of Wizarding Britain. Panic he could use. Maybe he was strong enough already to start fighting more openly.

But he needed wands for his most trusted followers. Ollivander was out of the question - Dumbledore would be watching. He wasn’t the only wandmaker, just the best in Britain. But is faithful followers, his Bella, deserved the best.

It was time for a little trip abroad.

*****


	22. Preparations and Diversions

**Chapter 22: Preparations and Diversions**

Ron Weasley winced when he saw his best friend, Harry Potter, get thrown back more than a yard by one of Sirius’s Bludgeoning Curse combos. Hermione had noticed it as well, and was distracted just long enough for Remus to hit her with a stunner that broke her Shield Charm followed by another that knocked her out.

Harry’s godfather and their Defense against the Dark Arts teacher didn’t pull many punches these days. They had known about the Dark Lord’s return, of course, but now that it had been all but announced in the Daily Prophet, everyone feared he’d send his followers out to attack and murder again, after the need for secrecy was gone. Or almost everyone - apparently, Dumbledore thought that the Dark Lord might still try to hide that he was back. But he was preparing as well, just to be safe.

Remus ennervated Hermione while Sirius helped Harry to get up again. The cushioned floor had prevented any real injury (bruises didn’t count according to their tutors), as Ron knew from personal and far too frequent experience, but the two older wizards were already talking about training ‘a bit more realistically’, which meant more painfully and with less safeguards. Ron didn’t see the point in training to survive if said training could cause you to die, but they’d not go that far - or so he hoped.

“Ron, your turn. Those two need a break, so you’ll get to practise dodging for a while.”

Sirius waved at him, and Ron put down the bottle he had been drinking from, and got up. He was just a tiny bit slower than at the start of the lesson, or so he’d guess. The teenager was wearing an unenchanted robe, which meant he’d be hindered somewhat in his movements, but it was better than having to reenchant a robe with a protection spell that didn’t survive the training. Or to ask Hermione to do it, and suffer some scathing remarks about taking care of his robes - she seemed rather stressed lately. Understandably so, given the circumstances.

Remus and Sirius were about 20 yards away, lined up close together, and shot stinging hexes at him as soon as he turned to face them. Not that he had left them out of his sight while walking to his starting spot - he had learned that lesson rather quickly at the beginning of the training sessions. Ron jumped to the side, into a roll, and dodged the first few spells. He almost cast a Shield Charm then and there, but if he did, their two teachers would step up their game as well, so he sent two stinging hexes back at them while he kept moving, running and dropping to the floor in an irregular pattern on his way to cover.

Remus and Sirius were closing though, and spreading out. He tried to keep Sirius back with a series of hexes while he ducked behind a pillar, but the wizard changed into a grim - a dog, Ron told himself, just a big black dog - and jumped over his salvo. The animagus changed back before he hit the ground, and started casting right afterwards, so Ron found himself stuck in a crossfire. The pillar should provide cover against Remus though, as long as… the Gryffindor started yelping when his back was hit by three stinging hexes.

“If you lose sight of your opponent, you generally lose the battle, Ron,” Remus said. He must have charged forward to the pillar as soon as Ron had taken cover behind it, when Sirius had drawn Ron’s attention to him.

Rubbing his back, Ron shook his head. “If I can see you, you can hit me. And I can’t dodge that well.”

“You should have anticipated such a move though and hit Moony right when he rounded the pillar,” Sirius added, grinning.

“We should do some aiming training too. Us three against two old, moving targets,” Ron muttered while he took up his old position for the next round. A flick of Remus’s wand had the pillars move around. Sirius started hexing before Remus had finished, but Ron had expected that, and was already moving.

He hadn’t expected Remus to lay traps though, and found himself stuck to the floor near a pillar. He was stung several times before he managed to free himself.

“Conjured glue, one of our specialities. Hermione created the disillusioned conjured glue spell though.” Sirius laughed.

Ron turned to glare at his two friends - couldn’t they have shared that spell before this session? -, only to notice that the witch in question was fussing over Harry, who must have taken some lumps during his training bout, and hadn’t even been looking at the three other wizards. From Ron’s angle he could see Hermione running her wand over Harry’s face, removing dust and some small cuts, while frowning and probably cursing Harry, Sirius, or both. When Harry reached up to cup her face, and the scowl transformed into a shy but radiant smile, Ron felt a pang of envy. He and Padma didn’t look like that before they kissed. He knew that. Not many couples were like his two best friends. It was hard to be so… intense… about a relationship before their Year of Exploration. Or during it. He shook his head, slightly, when the two kissed and closed their eyes. Lost to the world.

“Like James and Lily.”

Sirius had come to stand next to him, watching the couple. He had a wistful smile on his face, and Ron couldn’t tell if it was nostalgic or envious. It said a lot about a couple if a man who had four Veela lovers might be envious of them.

“Yes.” Ron could not disagree, even if he had never met Harry’s parents.

Their silent contemplation was interrupted by Remus. “We’re not yet finished, Sirius!”

The other wizard grinned, slapped Ron on the shoulder, and walked over for another round of dodge traning.

Ron didn’t discover that the cheating wizard had stuck an invisible line to his back that tied him to the floor until he tried to dodge the next volley of hexes coming at him.

*****

“Hermione?” Harry Potter addressed his girlfriend in the refurbished classroom which granted them and their friends the sort of privacy that was scarce at Hogwarts before their 6th year. Without this room, Harry was certain, the pressure on them would have been impossible to stand. Not because they wouldn’t have been able to kiss, and maybe go a bit further, but because they would have been forced to act as Patron and retainer almost all the time. Harry didn’t think their relationship would have lasted under such conditions.

“Yes, Harry?” The young muggleborn witch looked up from the book she was studying.

“What exactly are you researching?” He got up from the couch he had been reading on and walked up to her, peering over her shoulder.

“Ways to deal with the Dark Mark,” Hermione answered. Neither she nor Harry called them Horcruxes, not even in private.

“What do you have in mind?” Sometimes Hermione went a bit too far.

“I don’t have a concrete concept yet, but Fleur mentioned that her family can track their members through a magical tattoo, and I think something similar might be possible with the Dark Mark as well,” Hermione explained.

“You think we can track the Death Eaters through their own marks?” That would provide a very big advantage in the war with Voldemort. To know their safe houses, attacks, and rally spots...

“That would be the goal, yes.” Hermione answered.

“Wouldn’t Voldemort have his marks protected against such attempts?” Harry did not think it would be that easy to find Death Eaters, or someone would have done it before in the last war. Dumbledore wasn’t a fool, after all.

“It is possible that he was too arrogant to think of that possibility when he created the Dark mark.” His friend didn’t look as if she believed that herself though.

“Do you believe that?”

Hermione sighed. “No. He’s too smart for that.”

“How do you think you can succeed then?” Harry asked. That his girlfriend wasn’t telling him all her plans and thoughts in details was a bad sign, in his opinion. Usually she jumped at such a chance to explain or lecture.

Hermione sighed again. “I think that by using a Dark Mark as a target, one can bypass most of the protections of the Dark Mark.” She didn’t look at Harry.

“Most.” Harry’s voice was flat. “You know what it is. It will be protected by the darkest curses he can think of.”

“Every curse can be defeated or avoided, given enough time and preparation,” his girlfriend answered, quoting Bill Weasley.

“And luck,” Harry grimly completed the quote, “which runs out sooner or later.” As Sirius was fond of telling him.

“If you prepare enough, you don’t need luck.” Hermione stood up, turned around and sat down on her desk, facing him.

“Can you prepare enough to match Voldemort? He’s been studying the Dark Arts for decades.” Harry stepped closer to her and reached out to brush a strand of hair that had escaped her fading styling charm back behind her ear.

“Yes.” Hermione sounded confident. “If it’s just one area, then yes.”

Harry wasn’t an expert in Curse-Breaking, but he had heard enough about it from both Hermione and Bill Weasley. “That means you’ll have to study the Dark Arts.”

“Just to know how to defeat them,” Hermione answered quickly.

“And you need a Dark Mark. To study, and then, later, as a target.”

“Yes.” She was avoiding his eyes again.

“Hermione.” She didn’t look up. “Hermione.” Harry cupped her chin and met her eyes. “How do you think you can study a Dark Mark without the Dark Lord noticing?”

“I am still working on that. I am focusing on ways to track magical marks first, or to be more precise, I am working on ways to hijack Protean Charms. Theoretically, the protections on a Dark Mark can be dealt with by someone else, and then the detection spell I am working on can be cast on it. Testing that with a simple Protean Charm won’t be dangerous at all.” She smiled at him. “And it won’t require studying any Dark Arts either.”

Harry was not much mollified. “But you will still study the Dark Arts, won’t you? Even if you could let Dumbledore do the rest once you have created your new detection spell?”

Hermione bit her lips, then slowly nodded. “Yes.”

It was Harry’s turn to sigh. Her answer was no surprise - he knew her too well. She’d not let others complete her task, nor let a mystery or challenge half-solved. “Will you try to duplicate Tom’s breaking of the Patron Oath as well?” This time he was avoiding her eyes.

“No.” Hermione’s flat answer made Harry feel relief - and guilt at the same time.

“You hate the oath though.”

“Not all of it. A small part of it sounds a bit like a wedding vow. A very old-fashioned muggle wedding vow though.”

Harry stared at her, mouth open, and she grinned, then giggled until he pouted, but for a moment she had a wistful smile on her face. He put his hands on her sides and stepped between her thighs. “Could a wedding vow replace the Patron Oath?”

Sighing, she shook her head. “No. Wedding vows are not magical vows. If they were then I am rather certain that the ministry would not have been able to outlaw marriages between a muggleborn and a pureblood. Outlawing something magic obviously allowed and condoned would have gone against the very foundation of the principles Wizarding Britain’s society claims to be following.”

“Could you create a magical wedding vow?” For a moment Harry imagined throwing that in the Wizengamot’s faces.

“The Patron Oath was the last magical oath created, and Fytherley Undercliffe never revealed just how he managed that. Based on his comments, most scholars think it was derived from an older ritual of binding, but no one ever found that ritual either,” Hermione said in the vexed tone she always had when talking about lost knowledge.

“How many have looked for it?” Harry thought a ‘ritual of binding’ was something a great number of less scrupulous wizards would like to know.

“Not many. The Imperius worked better and was far easier to cast.” Hermione smiled cynically - Harry knew she shared his view of their fellow wizards and witches.  
  
“I could just release you, and not tell anyone. No one would know.” And Hermione would be free. Free to love him, or leave him.

“Until people spot the lie when I name you my Patron.” Hermione shook her head. “It’s not worth it; we’d be living every day in fear of someone discovering the lie.” Harry ground his teeth, and Hermione slid down from the desk, put her hands on his shoulder and leaned against him. “We’ll find a way, Harry. But dealing with Voldemort takes priority. Dealing with him, and his Death Eaters. And that link of yours to him. Whatever it is.”

That link. Harry didn’t know what it was. The Headmaster had been vague - either he too didn’t know what the link was, or he didn’t want to tell Harry. Or he didn’t want to know. “You’d be the first, Hermione. No one really has looked into that, as far as I know.”

“Which is weird. The most famous event of the last few decades, and no one is investigating it?” Hermione sounded perplexed.

“I think everyone left that to Dumbledore.” More or less voluntarily, Harry thought. It wasn’t as if someone could have investigated his link anyway, with him protected by the blood wards, and of course Dumbledore. “Would you expect people who still speak of ‘You-Know-Who’ to investigate his death?”

“True. And now, with his return all but confirmed…” Hermione smiled grimly.

“People are afraid again. They might even start to avoid me,” Harry said in a gloomy mood.

“No they won’t. At least no one who matters.“ Hermione looked into his eyes, then grabbed his head and kissed him.

When they broke the kiss, he had pushed her back against the desk and both of them were breathing heavily. Harry smiled, and leaned forward while his arms started to slide up the young witch’s side.

Indeed, without that room they’d be much more stressed. At least before their 6th year.

*****

“‘Controversy about muggle pictures shown at Hogwarts’?”

Hermione Granger quickly read the article in the Daily Prophet under that headline, then looked at her friends at the Gryffindor table. “Have you read this? What a bunch of hide-bound ignorant …” She trailed off with a huff.

“That’s the Prophet’s staff for you,” Luna nodded sagely. “They say the same things about the Quibbler’s discoveries.”

“What are they thinking? ‘Muggle Indoctrination’, ‘A crude imitation of magical pictures’, ‘Obviously a prank spell’.” Hermione snarled at the offending text with so much anger, one of the pictures of an ‘expert’ attempted to flee from its frame. “It’s not a spell, it’s muggle technology!”

“We know that, but they don’t know it,” Harry said, trying to calm her down. “All they ever heard was that technology doesn’t work at Hogwarts.”

Hermione didn’t want to be calmed down. This was the first truly important achievement of hers, and hers alone, and those cretins were trying to discredit her! “They are just afraid of the Dark Lord and think that speaking out against muggles will make him spare them! Or they don’t want to admit that a muggleborn witch managed that!”

Her friends made various agreeing noises while eating. Hermione glared at them. This was important!

“It doesn’t matter much. The students love the movies. Every screening so far has been packed,” Aicha said.

“But for the exclusive press screening!” Luna piped up.

“You’re the only member of the press at Hogwarts, Luna. Of course no one else can attend those but you.”

“Mh! And I have you for me alone at every such screening!” Luna beamed at Hermione.

“Of course - I have to use the projector.”

“Exactly!” The blonde witch nodded, grinning.

“Anyway. They even accuse me of trying to falsify historical documents - didn’t they get that all the movies we have shown were animated movies with a fictional plot? We made certain everyone in the audience knew that!” Hermione imagined hexing the staff responsible for the article. Maybe with a babbling curse that made it impossible for them to not speak the truth. Only adjusted so they couldn’t write lies either.

“Those are people who never saw the movies,” Harry stated. “And so far they just saw Disney cartoons. Just wait until they see Star Wars!”

Hermione still wasn’t certain that it was a good idea to show that movie. If some wizard or witch tried to create a lightsaber afterwards… She didn’t say anything though - that particular choice had been extensively discussed, and her friends simply hadn’t seen her point after Harry had made it clear just how much of a fan of that franchise he was.

“Don’t worry, Hermione. I’ll write an article to show them their mistakes!” Luna cheerfully announced.

Hermione didn’t feel that reassured.

*****

“I think the possibility of the Dark Lord’s return had a bigger effect than we expected.”

“Hm?” Hermione interrupted her rearranging of the conjured seats for the Movie Night at Hogwarts and looked at Harry.

“There’s a smaller crowd waiting outside than usual,” Harry stated.

“Despite Luna’s article, and the buzz from the Gryffindors?” Hermione was disappointed. “Do you really think it’s fear of Voldemort?”

“Yes. But it’s probably fueled by some students who share their parents’ views,” Harry added.

“You mean Malfoy.” Hermione knew that bigot would be jumping on the bandwagon as soon as possible.

“And some others, but mainly him. He’s started to throw his new weight as head of his family around, or so I heard.” Harry rearranged some of the floating snacks.

“Who did you hear that from?” Hermione knew Harry had not many contacts among House Slytherin.

“From me,” Ron answered, closing the drink containers he had checked.

“Ron?” Their friend was more than slightly biased against Slytherins. “Did you hear it from Padma?”

“Yes. She heard Professor Sinistra seems to have had a very good reception as interim Head of House after Snape’s reign, but there are some trouble makers.”

That was interesting. Without Professor Snape, the House might yet turn out less snobbish. But then - they had a lot of students from rich families, and Hermione knew that being richer than everyone else often came with its own brand of bigotry, magic or not. She had experienced that while looking for a good secondary school. “Well, we’ll see. If they like Star Wars so much, then those who stayed away out of fear might ask for a rerun.”

“They will!” Harry smiled widely. “No one can resist Star Wars!”

“Hmph.” Sometimes Hermione wondered if Harry saw just a bit too much of himself in Star Wars. “We’re ready, and it’s time.”

Ron nodded at her and went to open the door. To Hermione’s surprise, among the first students to enter was Parkinson, and without her charming boyfriend and future husband, Malfoy. The Slytherin witch was looking almost giddy, and even beamed at the scowling Ron - which threw Hermione’s friend so off that he gaped for a second.

Hermione glanced at Harry and Ron and nodded - it was obvious that Parkinson was up to something. For Malfoy, of course. But they’d keep an eye on her - no Death Eater Spawn would ruin this night.

*****

Pansy Parkinson almost smirked at the expression on Weasley’s face while she selected her seat. She was one of the few Slytherins of her year to attend, next to that simpleton Greengrass and her friend Davis. The others of her year, as most of her House, had decided not to attend this Movie Night, after the rumors of the Dark Lord’s return had grown stronger with each day following that article in the Prophet. Draco, who had watched every movie shown so far, had lapped the drivel up, and had ranted against the ‘corruption’ of Hogwarts. Which meant attending this night was the perfect opportunity for Pansy to show that she was unsuitable as the girlfriend of the new Head of the Malfoy Family. Too easily lured by novelties, too simple to understand the ploys behind them, too stupid to see that the Dark Lord’s return had changed things even at Hogwarts. It would be a challenge to appear enamored of those muggle movies while at the same avoiding to be seen as a muggle-loving blood traitor, but Pansy was reasonably certain she’d be able to pull that off. It shouldn’t take more than a few choice remarks about ‘mudbloods’.

Though what she really needed was someone else making a move on Draco as soon as it was obvious he was unhappy with her. Among the upstarts and social-climbing witches of her house, at least one witch should be dumb enough to think Draco was a good catch just because he was now the Head of his family. Greengrass would fit the bill - how Davis could let the twit attend a ‘Movie Night’ and keep her company was beyond Pansy - but the dumb blonde probably still had her eyes set on Potter. Which made her even dumber than Pansy had thought, since Potter and his friends and family would be some of the Dark Lord’s main targets.

Pansy noticed Granger staring at her, and smiled at the muggleborn with her best ‘be polite to the servants’ expression. Best to let the girl know her place - judging by the witch’s strained smile she had understood. The Slytherin grabbed a drink - pumpkin juice and a piece of treacle tart, of course, none of that muggle junk for her - and leaned back in her seat to enjoy the movie.

When the lights dimmed and the movie started, Pansy quickly realised this was not an animated movie. She briefly wondered what a ‘galaxy’ was, before the ‘DEATH STAR’ sent a few of the audience gasping because of the associations with Death Eaters. Pansy couldn’t help but shuddering herself. Then the fight between… flying ships started. One was sending killing curses at the smaller one, who returned fire with stunners. Or so Pansy thought at first. Weird wands too. Then the Dark Lord of the Sith appeared, and she stared at the screen, captivated, snack and drink forgotten, until the heroes received their Orders of Merlin.

Not everyone had been as courteous as she was. There had been loud cheering, shrieking - not from her, she had gasped, but certainly not shrieked - and laughter. Once the lights went on again, Pansy shook her head. That had been different from the other movies. Very different. But… Oh, she wouldn’t have to fake enthusiasm for Draco’s sake, if the next movie was as great as this one! A whole trilogy!

*****

There she was! Draco Malfoy, Head of the Malfoy Family, jumped, no stood up from his seat in the Slytherin commons room, and strode toward his wayward girlfriend, his trusted friends trailing behind him. “Where have you been?”

The somewhat dim girl turned to him, a vacant smile on her pretty face. “Ah, Draco! I have just seen the most marvelous movie ever!”

So the rumors had been true. He had not wanted to believe it, but Pansy had gone to that seductive but corruptive ‘Movie Night’. The article had been all too correct - Draco had caught himself humming some of those insidiously captivating songs for weeks! “Pansy! You cannot attend those … screenings! They are a threat to our culture! They weaken our nation!”

“Pishposh, Draco! It’s simple entertainment. How could anything muggles create be a danger for wizards and witches?” Pansy made a dismissive gesture.

“Didn’t you read the article in the Daily Prophet?” Draco knew Pansy had read the article. “Such displays of muggle fancies will lure the weak-willed away from proper wizard pastimes! Soon those unfortunates will spend all their time watching those movies, instead of doing magic!”

“Well, I am not weak-willed, so I am in no danger!” Pansy smirked.

Draco suppressed the urge to sigh. She was usually such a pliable girl, but sometimes she was more stubborn than a chameleon mule - and those were infamous for their ability to not budge an inch if they did not want to. Legend had that a tower of Hogwarts had such an animal as a foundation stone, and the animal had not moved ever since. “Think of the impression others will have!” He gestured towards their commons room. “What will everyone think of you if you are seen with the weak-willed blood traitors?”

Pansy sneered. “They will be envious of course, that I can safely watch a movie and they cannot!”

Draco ground his teeth together. “Pansy! As my girlfriend, you have to conform to certain standards!”

“Exactly! I am a pureblood witch, of impeccable ancestry, beauty and grace, and strong enough to resist what would corrupt others!” Pansy preened. Merlin, that girl had delusions!

“Pansy, that may be so...” Draco began trying to reason with the witch again.

“What do you mean, ‘may be’? You said so yourself, numerous times! Were those words just lies?”

“Of course not! What I am trying to say is that the girlfriend of the Head of the Malfoy Family does not just have to be impeccable, but also has to appear so to everyone. Surely you know that not everyone will be able to accept the truth, no matter how obvious. They will compare you to Greengrass!” That should make her see reason - she hated the eldest daughter of the Greengrass Family.

Pansy huffed. She was digging her heels in, Draco knew that even before she spoke again. “I refuse to give up a harmless hobby just so some stupid gossips do not wag their tongues!”

He felt his temper rise, and tried again to reason with the dimwit. “In the current climate anyone watching those movies runs the risk of being seen as a muggle-lover. I cannot afford to risk that myself, not with the fate of my dear father showing me the dangers of such slander!”

“You are not your father, Draco. I want to watch the next part of tonight’s movie, and I will watch it! If you cannot accept that, you will have to look for a weaker girlfriend!”

Draco glared at her. Did she really believe she was the best witch he could get, and could bend him to her will? He was Draco Malfoy, not some weak-willed fool! Now that he was the Head of the Malfoy Family, he’d have witches throw themselves at him. And he’d have a whole year to see who would please him best. “Then I will do so, Miss Parkinson!” He sneered at her, then raised his chin, as befitted such a statement, and turned on his heel. Gregory and Vincent parted in front of him as he left his former girlfriend standing.

To his gratification, he heard her gasp, and then quickly leave - that would have shown her her place. No one tried to control a Malfoy!

*****

“Have you heard the latest?” Hermione Granger heard Parvati’s excited voice even in the bathroom. That half of the gossip twins probably had another baseless rumor to spread, for those who had nothing more important to do than speculate about the relationships of other students.

“No, what did you hear?” Lavender’s eager voice was almost as loud. Hermione could imagine the two, sitting on Lavender’s bed, heads together yet speaking so loud, she would need a Silencing Charm on the bed curtains to be able to sleep and she still would have to struggle with the urge to cast the charm on both of them.

“Malfoy and Parkinson split up!”

“No!” Lavender clapped her hands together.

“Yes!”

Hermione froze. It was just gossip, pointless gossip at that, and yet… Parkinson had been up to something tonight, she had been certain, but the silly witch had not done anything she, Harry or any of their friends had spotted. That didn’t mean nothing had happened - she could have been a diversion. But if she and Malfoy had broken up…

“How did that happen? She was his girlfriend since our first year!” Lavender, of course, knew more about the different relationships at school than anyone else. What a waste for her mind to focus on such silly things instead of real knowledge!

“I’ve heard it from Padma, who heard it from Turpin, who was told by Davis, who saw and heard it herself: Malfoy wanted Parkinson to stop watching muggle movies, and she refused. He told her she’d have to choose between the movies and him, and she picked the movies over him!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Hermione blinked. If that was true … While one couldn’t really trust the gossip twins to correctly remember everything they had heard, if the information came from Padma, who was generally reliable, then it was likely to be mostly correct. Well, good for Parkinson to finally develop a sort of brain and and enough taste to go with it. But the muggleborn witch was certain some other idiot would jump at the chance to become Mrs Malfoy. Probably Greengrass, as soon as that idiot finally realised she had no chance with Harry and stopped making cow eyes at Hermione’s boyfriend.

The young witch finished checking her appearance and schooled her features - it wouldn’t do to let her dormmates think she cared about such silly gossip - and left the bathroom to head to bed. Internally she was sighing though - if Star Wars was the cause of the breakup of the Malfoy-Parkinson relationship, then Harry would never let anyone forget it.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick stared at the meal the innkeeper of the Leaky Cauldron had just levitated over to the table he was sharing with his partner, Bertha Limmington. “I am certain serving whatever this is supposed to be breaks at least one law.”

“It’s stew.” Bertha was already eating with apparent gusto.

“It looks like slop. Or something left after a particularly challenging Potions lesson where the worst students have been told to be creative.” Kenneth poked the mass with a spoon as if he feared it might attack him.

“It’s stew. We had the same two weeks ago.”

“I know. That was my subtle attempt to tell you that it’s bad stew.” Kenneth stared at his partner.

“Just because you do not like something doesn’t make it bad. Besides you always complain until I have finished eating, and then you eat it anyway.”

She was correct of course - she usually was - but it was the principle of the thing! If Kenneth just complained enough, then Bertha might finally stop choosing the Leaky Cauldron for their shared lunch. That was the theory, at least.

The Auror started eating himself, grumbling under his breath, then narrowed his eyes when he thought he caught his partner smirking. Before he could say anything though a shout caught his attention.

“Death to Purebloods! Confringo!”

Kenneth whirled around, his wand appearing in his hand from his wrist-mounted quick-draw holster, but an occupied table exploded before he could spot the attacker. He managed to cast a shield though, stopping the mass of wooden shards and splinters headed towards him and Bertha. Other guests hadn’t had the reflexes and training of an Auror, and Kenneth could see half a dozen wounded apart from the three unfortunate whose table had literally been blown up in their face.

The one responsible for it, a man wearing a rather drab robe, was about to cast again, wildly moving his wand - no point-casting there, Kenneth noted - when Bertha’s stunner took him down.

“Thanks for the shield.” Bertha sounded as collected as ever.

“My pleasure.” Kenneth smiled at her, briefly. There was work to do.

Both Aurors kept their wands out, but no other attacker appeared. Bertha went ahead, bound the attacker and dropped a portkey to the holding cells on him while Kenneth watched over her. Such mindless attacks could be a distraction, or a precursor to more. Around them, the screaming, bleeding guests who had been wounded were floating towards the floo thanks to a few of the pub’s staff. St. Mungo’s would be busy today. At least two of the victims Kenneth saw were beyond help though, torn apart by the spell’s effect.

He pressed his lips together as he watched the scene. Yes, there was work to do.

*****

“Who is that spawn of a goblin whore who tried to blow up the Leaky Cauldron?”

Nymphadora Black-Tonks heard Auror Fenbrick bellowing before he even placed a foot in the Auror offices. Fenbrick was a jerk and a womanizer, hitting on anything female apart from his partner - according to rumors he had even hit on Madam Bones - but he was a veteran Auror, with lots of experience with political or just plain horrible cases. And since Nymphadora was neither a veteran Auror nor had much experience, she stood up at once and reported what the office had found out in the hour since the captured attacker had arrived in the holding cells: “Francis Dengeroth. Muggleborn, works in construction, specialist for expansion charms.”

“Why would a construction wizard attack the Leaky Cauldron? Any ties to radical groups? Did he lose family in the last war?” Fenbrick started walking towards her, followed by his much less loud partner.

“He said ‘to strike a blow against the purebloods oppressing us’ when we asked.” Nymphadora didn’t jump to attention, Aurors didn’t do that once the graduated the academy, but she stood straight. “He claims his Patron gave his blessings.”

“Who’s his Patron?”

“Angela Barrowdale.”

“Wizengamot member since 1965,” Auror Limmington added. “Among the richer Wizengamot members, widowed. Her husband was killed in the last war.”

“Yes.” Nymphadora stated, then felt foolish. Of course it was correct - this was Bertha Limmington, the living library.

“A Wizengamot member? Why do we always get the political cases? We were just eating slop in that pub, we were not even on duty!” Fenbrick complained.

Limmington seemed to ignore her partner’s rant and addressed Nymphadora: “Any signs of the Imperius or memory modification?”

“We’re still checking, but it looks like it’ll take a while - if there was either or both involved, then it was done with a lot of skill.” Nymphadora was glad it wouldn’t be her who’d have to take apart the memories of Dengeroth second by second to find the tiny inconsistencies that would indicate a fake memory. As a Metamorphmagus, her talent was too valuable to be wasted on such tasks.

“We will be talking to Madam Barrowdale then,” Limmington said. “Provided she is amenable to answering a few questions.”

Nymphadora nodded. It looked like it would be a long day for everyone involved - but she didn’t mind too much. Viktor was not in Britain anyway. He could only visit sporadically during the season; his new trainer was worse than what she had heard from Harry of Oliver Wood.

“Everyone able, floo to Diagon Alley! We’ve received reports of random attacks in the middle of the street!” Another Auror, Middleton, shouted from the door before rushing away.

Nymphadora cursed while she started to run after the man, drawing her wand on the way. Wasn’t that a job for the Hit-Wizards? You didn’t need Aurors to take down people casting curses at a crowd!

A minute later she exited the floo in the Leaky Cauldron. The entrance to Diagon Alley was already open, and she could hear more screaming from the street, but no explosions. Behind her Fenbrick loudly said: “See? I bet it’s all over and there was no need for us to head here, much less run!” Neither Limmington nor Nymphadora answered him while they were entering Diagon Alley.

It was over - inasmuch as no one was hexing anyone anymore. But there were about ten wizards and witches on the ground, wounded, many screaming or moaning, and a few more who did not move or scream.

“She attacked us! She did it! Started screaming about killing purebloods, and then hexed us. Blew up half the street!” a wide-eyed older man shouted, pointing at the corpse of a young witch lying in a big pool of blood in the middle of the street. Nymphadora saw a small crater, barely half a meter wide, but otherwise the street looked undamaged.

“Hit by at least six spells from five different wands,” Limmington stated, running her wand over the corpse. “Five piercing curses, one stunner. Died from blood loss.”

“She attacked us, we were just defending ourselves!” the wizard who had pointed the corpse out exclaimed.

“Pretty one.” Fenbrick shook his head. “First the Cauldron, then this. Looks like an organized attack. By unorganized people. Doesn’t make much sense.”

“Unless they were under the Imperius.” Limmington stood up and holstered her wand.

“Exactly. That’s going to be messy. I hope the boss has plans for that ready.” Fenbrick looked rather grim, Nymphadora noticed. Like Sirius and Remus did, when they were talking about old friends who were no longer with them.

Nymphadora hoped that in a few years, she’d not have the same kind of stare.

*****

Mathilda Miller, dressed in the skimpy robe that an English lady of the night would wear when trying to imitate a French-trained courtesan, sat on a stool at the bar in what passed for the best tavern in Knockturn Alley. Usually it would be full of boasting wizards and witches, drinking, gambling and looking for some paid company for the night. Wands would be crossed often, but most would consider that entertainment.

Not so this night. Everyone was clustered at tables, glancing and glaring at the other guests with suspicion in their eyes and their wands ready. Mathilda looked at the bartender, a pretty but not beautiful witch, a bit too young for such a position in her opinion, then dropped a sickle on the bartop, acting as if she had just dropped a small fortune. Without taking her eyes off the main room, she asked: “What’s happened that all the hired wands are so antsy? I feel like trying to find a client would be asking for a curse to my face.”

The girl pocketed the sickle with a flick of her wand. “It’s the attacks in Diagon Alley, ma’am. Rumor is, muggleborns are planning to kill the purebloods wherever they find them.”

“So everyone expects the other to either attack them, or attack them preemptively?” Mathilda theatrically sighed, which seemed to strain her robe over her chest - an effect sadly wasted on a tavern full of thieves and thugs ready to curse each other.

“Yes, ma’am.” The bartender didn’t sound very concerned - she probably trusted the protection spells on the bar. They wouldn’t stop a killing curse, of course.

Mathilda also noticed that none of the wands hired by Finnegan Greenbrand whom she had cultivated as ‘regulars’ were present. In fact, she didn’t spot any of the more prominent wizards or witches in Greenbrand’s service.

She dropped another sickle. “Have you seen my friend Peter Bonsen? He is usually celebrating his latest pay at this time of the night.” Peter fancied himself a gentleman, and took care to only frequent what passed for the most expensive bars and other venues in Knockturn Alley. He had jumped at the chance to bed the classiest and most expensive-looking girl.

A flick and that sickle too vanished into the girl’s robes. “No, ma’am, not since four days.”

“I see. He’s probably avoiding the Alley until things settle down. Something I believe would be a smart course of action for myself.”

Mathilda stood up and walked through the main room to the door. She walked as provocatively as her cover would, with a smile on her lips and a half-lidded glance for anyone who’d meet her eyes, but once outside, she was relieved. She could have cut the tension inside with a knife. It wouldn’t be long before things would escalate - despite, or maybe because, the fact that Dark Lord’s most recent recruits had not been around. They probably had not been in Britain at all, since days.

Mathilda apparated to a flat she had rented in muggle London, to change her robe and look - she had a report to make in Hogsmeade. She was grinning though - it was almost like she was in Paris again, spying on the local thugs and Gendarmes, trying to ferret out their secrets for blackmail, or just for fun.

*****

“Hello Amelia,” Albus Dumbledore smiled at the head of the DMLE. “I am grateful you found time for me so promptly.”

“Spare me the empty words, Albus. We’ve had three attacks in broad daylight on innocent diners and shoppers by what I strongly suspect were imperiused wizards and witches.” Amelia sounded both angry and tired, and her desk was covered with more parchment than usual. Two paper planes circled around her, waiting for her to acknowledge them.

“There is no proof or hint at all?” Albus didn’t expect any - Tom was quite careful, and both skilled and experienced in the application of memory charms.

“Plenty of hints, nothing solid - yet. The memory spells were done very well, but we have found some traces of them.”

That surprised him. Either Tom was getting sloppy, or the quality of the criminal investigation had improved more under Amelia than Albus had expected.

“Will that be enough to prove that the arrested are as much victims as the unfortunate targets of their spells?” He wouldn’t condone prosecuting them for a crime they were forced to do. It was a tragedy already that two of the attackers had been killed by citizens defending themselves. As if people had never learned how to stun!

“Enough for a ‘reasonable doubt’ verdict. But that might not sway the Wizengamot members who feel personally threatened by what appears to be a muggleborn front out for pure blood.” Amelia frowned. “People are panicking, they want something done so this does not repeat itself.

“That is why I am here.” Albus pulled out a thick scroll from a slim pocket. “I have a proposal to prevent at least a few of those attacks in the future.”

Amelia scanned it quickly, then looked up. “Thief’s Downfall?”

”Exactly.” The Headmaster beamed at her. This should not take much time then.

“Too expensive for our budget, or I’d have one in front of every Floo connection in the Ministry.”

“One or two in the Ministry, and traffic gets re-routed through them. I think a number of the Wizengamot members would gladly contribute for such an effective way to protect them.” The Wizengamot had their own, protected Floo connection, of course, but they were aware of the danger imperiused Ministry employees posed even for them.

“That would help the Wizengamot, and the Ministry, but what about the rest of Britain?” Amelia still sounded sceptical.

“All Floo travel could be re-rooted through such checkpoints. It would not do much to prevent apparating assassins, but people could at least trust whoever arrives through the floo.” That had been the height of terror, back in the last war - home invasions by imperiused friends and family. To deal with the horror and fear such attacks caused had almost been beyond the Ministry at the time.

“That will make travel times a lot longer too.” Amelia objected, but she seemed to warm up to the plan.

“A small price to pay for security.” Albus nodded sagely. It wouldn’t hurt at all if people were taking things a bit more slowly, anyway - maybe they’d think more before they spoke and acted.

“You seem to have covered most of my objections. Have you spoken with the Wizengamot already?”

Dumbledore carefully didn’t smile. She was sharp. “I have mentioned the idea to a few of my colleagues. Enough to be certain of the idea’s acceptance. The Ministry will be seen to be doing something. Something effective, even.”

The head of the DMLE glared at him. The witch didn’t like some of the more cynical jokes Dumbledore knew about the Ministry. “Why do you come to me then, rather than go directly to the minister?”

“To hear your thoughts, and inform you so you can plan in advance. Cornelius might be tempted to, ah, pad the project if it takes more time than absolutely necessary to be completed.”

Amelia nodded. “I am certain he’ll find a way no matter what. He’s very good at that.”

“I hope his skill will translate into a more effective and funded Ministry.” Cornelius wasn’t a bad man, Albus thought, just weak and a bit too easily led when he should be leading. Though there were advantages as well to having a minister who was easily guided by him.

“That’ll happen right after dragons become vegetarians.” Amelia snorted.

“I’ve more news too. Exclusive and secret news.” Albus took a deep breath while Amelia recast a few privacy spells. “Voldemort has either gone to ground with most of his hired help, or left the country.”

“Not for good I bet.”

“No. I assume he’s trying to acquire custom-fitted wands for his recently liberated followers.” It was what Albus would do in the same situation.

“Who’d sell to the most wanted Death Eaters? Even those with sympathies will think twice before risking that one of their wands ends up as proof of their support.

“I’ve informed some of my colleagues so they can have people keep an eye on the most prominent and best wandmakers of their countries, but …” Albus wasn’t sure if they had believed him. It had been decades since the Intervention, and even longer since Grindelwald.

“If it’s truly him, they won’t be able to stop him. Unless it’s really close to Britain and you could apparate there.” Amelia stared at him, but fortunately not with the expression of those who saw Albus as Merlin’s successor, able to right all wrongs and defeat all evil.

“Unfortunately, he’ll have taken this into account. But at least Ollivander and the other British wandmakers are safe.” Albus spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“Let’s hope so. Imagine - young witches and wizards not being able to get their first matched wands!” Amelia shook her head. “That would be as great a blow to the Ministry as people going hungry.”

Albus gravely nodded at the idea. “I’ve also been talking to Croaker. His people have found a way to detect polyjuice even hours after a body died.”

“Do I want to know how they managed that?”

“It’s a fascinating mix of magic and muggle concepts. They noticed that certain substances leave distinctive traces in a man’s blood, many of them lingering for quite some time. Those can be detected, and the lingering traces can be isolated and identified. The rate of degradation even allows them to judge the quality of the potion. Why, the applications beyond this case…”

“A simple ‘No, you don’t want to know’ would have sufficed, Albus.” Amelia glared at him before grinning.

Albus chuckled, and he and Amelia shared a brief moment of levity. Albus had a feeling laughter wouldn’t be common in the future.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort stared at the small village in Northern Greece. As far as wizard enclaves went, it was pitiful - half a dozen houses, not counting the barns. The inhabitants grew various plants and herbs and sold them as potion ingredients. There was nothing of note in this hole - unless one knew who exactly ‘the Prussian’ was who had come to live here decades ago. If one asked around a bit, one would find out that it was a former mercenary named Karl Klugmann, who had fought in the Intervention and then had decided to retire with what he had looted from the Ottomans. Nothing remarkable, really.

But if one had asked around in Magical Prussia in the years after the fall of Grindelwald, one might have heard of ‘Siegfried Steinberg’, a talented wandmaker who had been responsible for a number of experimental wands during Grindelwald’s reign. One might have even met him, before he had to flee from Prussia. And one might have, decades later, heard of a shop in a hovel with quite the interesting selection of wands, the type even Ollivander would call the Aurors for.

Voldemort looked back at the twenty hired wands with him. “Wait here until I return.”

“Yes, sir!” their leader, Flynn Smithersen, answered. If he performed well, Voldemort would mark him next.

The Dark Lord slowly walked down the hill, towards the village. He was wearing the body and face of a thug from Albania who had led them here. A young woman gathering Shrieking Grass - carefully, to avoid startling it before she cut it - looked at him and Voldemort smiled back with a nod and a greeting. She’d have gotten a good look at him, as he had planned.

After knocking on the door to the the cottage of ‘Klugmann’, Voldemort looked around while he waited. It really was a boring hamlet, not even a village.

“Yes?” An older man opened the door and stared at him.

“Mister Klugmann? I require your services. I need a lost wand replaced.”

“I may have a wand or two, which I picked up during the Intervention. Though it wouldn’t be cheap, it’s a memento, you understand.” Klugmann smiled apologetically.

“Of course, I understand,” the Dark Lord answered, despite knowing that if that cover story were true, Klugmann would have spent the entirety of the Intervention picking up wands, so many had he sold so far with the same story.

“Come inside.” The wizard stepped to the side and waved him through.

For a fugitive and former follower of Grindelwald, Steinberg seemed far too trusting. Or maybe he was too arrogant to think he could be bested in his own warded home. Some wizards had tried to steal from him, none had succeeded. Few had survived, even. And he had strong wards. An ordinary wizard would be hard-pressed to even cast there.

Voldemort was no ordinary wizard. His stunner was weakened by the wards, almost deflected by the shield, and yet strong and well-aimed enough to send Steinberg to the ground. A wave of his wand had the man bound and gagged. Another restored a small figurine into the Albanian who had led him there. The man screamed and cursed as soon as he woke up. The Dark Lord waited a few seconds, then body-bound and silenced him. Another figurine turned into a relative or friend of the Albanian - the Dark Lord had not particularly cared what the exact relationship was. A hair from Steinberg and a potion later, an unconscious double of Steinberg was dropped on the floor.

The Albanian wizard’s eyes glared at Voldemort when the Dark Lord showed him his wand, taken from him earlier. They widened in terror when Voldemort used the wand to cast fiendfyre before apparating away with Steinberg.

“We’re done here. Return to camp!” Voldemort ordered as soon as he had rejoined his mercenaries. He could imagine the report this event would leave: An Albanian mercenary had tried to rob a wizard who dabbled in wand making. One of them had cast Fiendfyre and lost control over it. The entire house had burned down. He doubted the Greek authorities would care much more about the whole affair, not with a nice witness describing a rather notorious bandit, whose corpse would be found in the ruins of the cottage - next to the one of ‘Klugmann’.

*****


	23. Dangerous Research

**Chapter 23: Dangerous Research**

Most British wizards and witches only knew rumors about the Department of Mysteries. Wild rumors. Vaults full of ancient, dangerous artifacts. Unethical experiments in pursuit of knowledge that wizards were not meant to know. Rituals even Dark Lords shied away from. Many were convinced that the Unspeakables, the members of that department, always wore hoods because they were not human anymore, but something else.

Albus Dumbledore, currently standing in the lift descending to that department, knew more than most about it. He also knew that the rumors were mostly, although not entirely, wrong. There were vaults with dangerous artifacts and many of the experiments and rituals done there were at least questionable. And the less said about the department’s past, the better.

And yet, the department was likely to be crucial in the fight against Voldemort. For all their eccentricities and sometimes questionable morals, the Unspeakables were among the foremost experts of magic in Britain. Experts better kept an eye on, though - Rookwood had been an Unspeakable and a Death Eater, after all.

Of course, Saul Croaker claimed that he had been the only traitor among his co-workers, and that his former colleague had never had access to the truly dangerous knowledge the Unspeakables guarded. But even if Albus would have been inclined to give Saul the benefit of the doubt, he was quite certain that a few of Saul’s co-workers could do with a bit more supervision, lest they lose sight of the lines one should not cross. Albus knew better than anyone else how easily one could start to justify the worst horrors with the best goals.

Sighing at the memory of his greatest mistake, and greatest regret, the old wizard entered the Department of Mysteries. The entrance looked deceptively ordinary, a bland room with grey walls and a polished black marble floor, and a single door across from the lift. But Albus was aware of the enchantments lining the walls and the floor of the room he was in - he had put a number of them there himself, after he had been chosen as Chief Warlock. Without his seal, or the badge of an Unspeakable, he’d not be able to go on. Not without quite the effort, at least.

Saul Croaker was waiting for him. It looked like Albus wouldn’t be able to peer into a few other offices ‘looking for Saul’, and claiming to be lost after the Room of Doors. He’d have to check on other Unspeakables during his next visit then. Smiling, he nodded at his old friend. “Good morning, Saul.”

“Good morning, Albus.”

Saul didn’t sound as if he actually thought it was a good morning, but that was probably caused by him staying up too late - like most of the Unspeakables, he tended to get lost in his work. According to another rumor, the youngest Unspeakable had the sole but vital duty to make sure that everyone else didn’t forget to eat. It was wrong of course - there had once been an enchantment that allowed the head of the department to remind his colleagues to eat and sleep, until the Unspeakables had done away with it because it tended to disturb their experiments. Once with disastrous results.

“You have sent me a note that you finished the other project we were talking about. I am impressed - first the polyjuice detection method, then this.” Provided it stood up to inspection.

Saul nodded, but made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. “It was a bit of a challenge to find something original, but nothing more than that.”

The two stepped through the door into the Room of Doors, a circular room whose ‘walls’ were made up of doors. As soon as the two were inside, the door behind them closed and the room spun around rapidly. It was a clever and entertaining bit of magic. The spinning doors would confuse an intruder and prevent them from reaching what they sought. The doors were just a smokescreen though - even if one tracked the door one had come through, the enchantment that linked them to the correct office or room would be changing in other ways. The actual door that opened was picked at random, on a verbal command.

“Hall of Prophecies,” Saul spoke up, not bothering to hide his impatience. Albus didn’t doubt that his friend considered the inspection a waste of his time. So confident - though with good reasons.

A door to their right opened, revealing the marble hallway leading to the vault where the prophecies were stored. Albus tapped his glasses, activating one of the enchantments on them, and checked the spells on the door, and the hall behind it. Spotting several new ones, he grinned.

Saul glanced at him. “That’s just to ensure that we don’t waste the real thing on someone else. We don’t expect the Dark Lord to be stopped by this.”

“I did not think you would.” Albus answered while he scanned the hallway. The spells checking for intruders were protected by cascading enchantments, and either could trigger more violent spells, with more spells triggered by other spells ending. All the curses in the world wouldn’t be of any use if the detection spells could be fooled of course - and Albus had a few ideas about how to do that.

As they walked through the hallway to the vault door, Saul commented. “I used to say that only those who could both see all the spells and traps in the department, and who would still walk in without flinching were Unspeakable material.”

“Oh?” Albus had heard that anecdote before, but it would have been impolite to point that out.

“Yes. But the trap we have out on the door, that made a few of my people flinch. I probably should lower my standards. Merlin knows, we get too few new Unspeakables as it is.” He glanced at Albus and frowned.

Albus smiled back at the implied complaint about his school - Saul was not happy with the curriculum of Hogwarts. “In my opinion, those students who possess both the curiosity to research what we do not teach and the moral fortitude to not succumb to the Dark Arts’ lure are future Unspeakables.”

His friend snorted. “And how many of those students exist? We need people who do not shy away from a subject just because some idiot in the Ministry had it labeled ‘dark’, Albus, or we won’t have the staff to do our duty.”

“Rest assured that I am keeping an eye out for such students.” Albus made a placatory gesture. He’d be testing any such student, of course - there would be no second Voldemort on his watch, least of all an Unspeakable. Tom would have been recruited in a heartbeat, had he not been a muggleborn at the time.

“Too bad Potter’s girlfriend is a muggleborn. She would be perfect for us,” Saul commented, as if he had just read Albus’s thoughts.

His friend was acting a bit too nonchalantly, in the Headmaster’s opinion. Miss Granger had the markings of an Unspeakable - an intellect with few equals, a curiosity to match, and enough determination and ambition for two others. But Albus wasn’t sure if the young witch had the correct character - he had seen signs of a ruthless pragmatism, a willingness to go to any length if Harry needed her to. Or if she thought he needed her to. He was not certain that it was as unfortunate as Saul made it out to be that muggleborns, beholden to their Patrons, were banned from being Unspeakables to avoid a conflict of loyalties. “She is certainly one of the brightest witches of her age,” he answered, noncommittally. Theoretically, she could earn an Order of Merlin, First Class, which would grant her pureblood status, but practically, anything noteworthy a muggleborn did would be attributed, at least partially, to their Patron.

“I’ve seen some of her work at the tournament. Maybe it’ll turn out that she’s been adopted, and actually was a pureblood war orphan who somehow ended up in the muggle world. Stranger things have been known to happen.” Saul wasn’t looking at Albus while he said that, but the Headmaster didn’t miss the faint smile on his friend’s face.

“I am quite certain that Miss Granger was not adopted, but I will of course look into the matter, if you suspect that her obvious talent is due to being a pureblood. But given our current troubles, I will be unable to dedicate much time to that.” Albus kept looking at Saul, to make sure his friend had understood what he was saying.

Saul laughed. “Did you ever think that we’d not have our current troubles if we had taught people all along that magic doesn’t care about blood? Not counting blood sacrifices, of course.”

“If there were no muggleborn the Dark Lord would have found something else to rally his followers against,” Albus answered.

“Someone else, you mean. Magical creatures, most likely, in my opinion,” Saul said.

“Did you actually research it?” Albus asked, with honest curiosity.

“While ‘The sociological dynamics behind the rise of Dark Lords’ would be a fascinating research topic, it’s not magical enough for my department. I have read up on a few muggle Dark Lords though.” Saul snorted again. “There’s not much of a difference, in my opinion.”

Albus had known his friend was interested in muggle sciences, but hadn’t known it went beyond their application for or duplication with magic research, like the polyjuice detection method. “I do not suppose the muggles found ways to prevent their next Dark Lord from rising.” Albus was not an expert, but he knew there were a lot of muggle tyrants. Or had been in the recent past, at least.

“It’s not foolproof, but they have had some successes,” Saul answered.

“Oh?” Albus perked up. If he could make certain that there would never be another Voldemort, even after Albus’s own death…. It wouldn’t make up for his many sins and mistakes, though it would be a legacy he could be proud of.

“It depends on what you consider a ‘Dark Lord’. Many countries seem to be remarkably stable, and very unlikely to be taken over by a muggle Dark Lord. But that does not mean that no tyrants try to take over, violently. Just because it won’t work doesn’t mean they won’t cause death and destruction.” Saul smiled cynically.

“I see.” So the muggle Dark Lords were simply less successful. Still…

“Most authors I’ve read claim that this is due to democracy, governments with checks and balances, and social security and mobility,” Saul went on. “But scale also matters. Muggles lack magic, and are far more numerous. A single Dark Lord and his band of followers won’t be nearly as powerful, relatively, as they are among wizards.”

“Implementing such sweeping reforms would destabilize our country.” Albus knew that only too well. Grindelwald had tried it, after all. Small steps, slow changes, were the key.

“Maybe. A crisis is an opportunity as well,” Saul said.

Albus simply nodded. Such thoughts were true, but dangerous. The kind of opportunities a crisis like the current one brought usually came at a heavy price. He turned his attention to the vault door, and his eyes widened. “I believe you’ve outdone yourself, Saul. I am truly impressed.”

Saul smiled. “Let’s hope the Dark Lord will be more than simply impressed. If he ever reaches this door.”

*****

Hogwarts had gone mad after the Star Wars Movie Night, in Hermione Granger’s opinion. Too many students asking for the ‘Choke Hold Spell’ in Charms or Defense, too many asking how best to create such a spell in Arithmancy. As a purely intellectual exercise, of course, Hermione had actually thought about that. A combination of the Levitation Charm with the Strangulation Curse would have the desired effect. Fortunately, the calculations for such a spell were beyond a student - even herself. That is, if she hadn’t her electronic calculator. With it she actually could create the spell, and in a reasonable amount of time too. But she had better, more important spells to research. Although the tactical uses of a choke hold spell were interesting. Forcing the enemy’s allies to deal with it, possibly opening them up to a follow-up attack. Or if one created it as a trap, so those trying to finite it would be subject to the same spell…

The young witch shook her head. She had to crack the Dark Mark, she couldn’t waste her time on those kind of spells, even though she could think of a few very fitting targets for them. Like Malfoy. The bigot really had broken up with Parkinson, after more than four years, over Star Wars. It was incredibly petty, although Parkinson was now better off. The stupid witch might even learn not to pick her boyfriends according to their father’s wealth, though Hermione wasn’t holding her breath. It wasn’t as if Parkinson had suddenly become less of a bigot - she still sneered at every muggleborn, or anyone she considered below her station and not properly subservient, which was a lot of people.

More important was that Parkinson choosing Star Wars over Malfoy had caused a surge in interest in the movie, so they had been all but forced to show it again a week after the first time. Harry had been almost impossibly smug about his movie pick, until Luna had speculated that Parkinson might now lust after him since he was the Star Wars expert at Hogwarts, and probably in all of Wizarding Britain. That had caused Harry to shut up quite quickly, to Hermione’s relief and amusement.

Fortunately, the chances of anyone creating a real lightsaber were almost non-existent - at least if they wanted to be able to parry spells with it. A simple cutting weapon though… a cutting curse, matched with a colored light blade to see where it was would be all that was needed. It was more difficult to create than a standard knife with an enhanced edge, but it shouldn’t be that much more difficult. Fortunately, it wouldn’t be that much more powerful either, as far as Hermione could tell. She hadn’t run those numbers though.

Sighing, the young witch forced her attention back to the book about tracking charms. She already had found a charm she could work with, but that was a classic tracking charm, essentially a more powerful and more complicated version of the Point Me Spell. She was wondering if there were tracking charms that worked differently. For what she had in mind, she could not use the classic tracking charm. She needed something that affected the target like a normal spell.

“Hermione?”

At hearing her name, she looked up. Fay Dunbar was standing at her table in the library. Thanks to the enchantments in the room Hermione hadn’t heard the other witch coming. If that had been someone who meant her harm… she resolved to find a way to be alerted earlier. “Yes Fay?”

“Are you trying to create a choke spell too?” Her dormmate’s tone showed that she expected that to be the case. Hermione felt irritated at that - it wasn’t as if she was a Darth Vader wannabe.

“No. I am checking tracking charms.” She held up the book to show the cover to Fay.

“Ah. Do you think such a spell is possible?” Fay leaned against Hermione’s table, but didn’t touch any of her books or - worse - notes.

“Theoretically, yes. Both effects are known, and neither effect is that complicated. Combining them into one spell, and one powerful enough to actually kill a human… the complexity would shoot through the roof.” Smiling - did Fay worry about such spells cast in Hogwarts? - she added: “Calculations for the spell formula would take far too long for anyone at school.”

Fay nodded, but didn’t seem to be relieved or reassured.

“Why do you ask? Are you planning to research such a spell?”

Fay shook her head. “No. I was just wondering if such a spell exists, but hasn’t been discovered yet.”

Hermione blinked. “Do you think someone already created the spell, but it was lost, or remained unknown?”

The other witch shook her head. “I believe you cannot create a spell, you can only discover how to cast a spell.”

“Is that a Purist belief?” Hermione didn’t know too much about the small sect Fay’s family was part of. The Purists held the belief that Magic should not be used ‘frivolously’, which meant it should be reserved for important tasks and situations, not used for mere convenience. It wasn’t a very popular belief, especially since most of Wizarding Britain’s economy ran on providing and maintaining such ‘frivolous spells’.

“Not as such. It’s more of a philosophical question.” Fay smiled.

“But does it matter if we create new magic or discover magic that we didn’t know yet when we work out new spells? The end result is the same. We learned how to cast a spell we didn’t know. And would it matter if someone already found a way, but we didn’t know?” There was no such thing as copyright, which meant many spells were jealously guarded by families or even individuals. An utterly wrong state of affairs, in Hermione’s opinion.

“It matters if you think that magic has a will of its own. If we can create new spells, does that affect magic itself? Can we change its nature by creating new spells? Or do we simply discover new facets that were already part of magic?” Fay looked at Hermione with a serious expression.

“I am not sure if either can be proven. But it’s an interesting question,” Hermione answered. She didn’t see how magic could have a will of its own. Although… there was accidental magic. While one could explain a child summoning a plush toy that was out of her reach - or a book, in her own case - with magic as the young witch willing magic to happen, what about accidental magic that reacted to a danger a child wasn’t aware of? Were there any documented cases of such an incident?

“Indeed. If you manage to answer it, please tell me.” Fay smiled.

“I will. But I’ve got one question for you: Is researching spells considered a frivolous use by Purists?”

“Gaining new knowledge about magic is never frivolous. No matter how frivolous the knowledge itself is,” Fay stated, as if she was quoting a book. She probably was.

“So… if I use a spell to wash the dishes, but at the same time I am trying to produce a better dish washing spell, that’s important?” Hermione could think of a dozen spells one could cast that way, under the guise of ‘experimenting’.

“What matters is why you do it. And that is a question only yourself can answer.” Fay smiled faintly.

“Unless we use Veritaserum.” Or legilimency, or compulsion charms.

“The use of Veritaserum to answer whether or not a dish washing spell was cast frivolously would certainly be frivolous itself.” Fay grinned now.

Hermione chuckled. Her dormmate had more humour than most other strongly religious people she knew. “You could also regularly cast spells so you are certain you can cast them perfectly, in case you need them to save someone.”

Fay held up her hands, laughing. “Hermione, it doesn’t matter what others are thinking about your reasons. Excuses won’t work on yourself.”

“Somehow I don’t think many Purists are spell researchers.”

“There are not many Purists at all. In the last war some claimed we were blood-traitors for living like muggles.” Fay sighed.

Hermione didn’t pry, but she could imagine that they hadn’t fared well. And they had been few to begin with. Far fewer than muggleborns. “I’d think only a fool would argue that self-defense was not important.”

“We’re reinforcing the wards at home. Just in case,” Fay said, her lips forming a thin line.

Hermione nodded. There wasn’t much she could say - not many wards would stand up to a strong Death Eater assault long enough for help to arrive. If things went as bad as they were in the last war, Fay’s family wouldn’t be the only one in such danger. One thing she could ask though. “Do you really think things would improve if we’d cast more spells to help people? Would the unforgivables grow weaker?”

“I don’t know. But the world would be a better place if people helped each other more.”

There was nothing Hermione could say against that.

*****

Sitting in the common room of House Slytherin, Pansy Parkinson had to fight not to smile too openly. She was supposed to still be hurt by the break-up, after all.

Her plan had worked perfectly. Almost perfectly. She was no longer Draco’s girlfriend, and the idiot thought it had been all his decision. A number of her housemates thought she was an idiot for breaking up with Draco over a muggle movie, but they didn’t matter. As if anyone of consequence would have really thought she’d marry Draco and give up her chance to become the Head of her family! No, things in Slytherin had gone about as she had expected.

Now if only Greengrass would become Draco’s new girlfriend… Pansy had spread the rumor that Potter was interested in the airhead, and that should send Draco running to upstage his rival and get her for himself.

Right on cue, she saw her ex-boyfriend enter and walk towards the couch the blonde dimwit and her friend Davis were sitting on. Draco was strutting like a peacock, though Pansy had to admit that he cut a fine figure in his expensive and extremely fashionable robes. He could be charming too, and he had impeccable manners - though he didn’t always show them, especially when talking to those he didn’t consider his equal. Or when he lost his temper. Or in private, sometimes.

She couldn’t hear what he was saying - Davis had cast a privacy spell - but she saw Draco smile widely, Greengrass smile back, and Davis roll her eyes. Soon though Draco’s face changed from charming smile to strained smile, his eyes were twitching just a little, to shock, followed by anger - no, rage. At that point he stalked off with a sneer on his face. Crashed and broke his broom, as the saying went.

Draco left the common room, probably going to his own room to sulk. Pansy had joined him there often enough to console him after similar incidents. Not as much in the last year, though - Draco had started to hold his own more often. Well, she didn’t need to repair his fragile ego anymore, someone else could do it. Instead she could… well, she shouldn’t, but she could. And she wanted to know what Draco had said, and heard.

Standing up, she walked over to Greengrass and Davis. The blonde started pouting even before Pansy got close enough to talk inside the privacy spell’s effect, not that Pansy cared about the dimwit. But Davis had her wand out.

“Greengrass, Davis.” Pansy nodded at the two witches.

“Parkinson.” Davis nodded back.

Greengrass glared at her. “Just because I didn’t want to become Malfoy’s new girlfriend doesn’t mean I want to become yours, Parkinson!”

“What?” Pansy stared at the twit. Did she actually believe… “Why would you think I was about to ask you out? Have I ever given any indication that I consider you attractive?”

The blonde idiot sniffed. “It doesn’t matter if you find me attractive. Malfoy just wanted to court me to upstage Potter, so it’s logical that you’d want to court me to upstage the boy who broke up with you.”

Pansy wrenched her gaze away from the bubblehead and stared at Davis. Couldn’t she handle her friend better? Pansy had handled Draco at his worst with less embarrassment, after all! Or… did Davis actually want Greengrass to embarrass herself? Was she playing the same game Pansy had been playing? “Did you tell her that?”

“I explained why Malfoy was coming on to her. She deduced the rest.” Davis smirked while Greengrass nodded.

Pansy narrowed her eyes at the brown-haired witch. “Very amusing. What did you say, by the way? He was absolutely livid when he stormed off.”

“If I wanted everyone to know what we said, I wouldn’t have cast a privacy spell.” Davis responded, her smirk growing wider. Next to her the twit nodded, as if she had thought the same and was not simply going along with her smarter friend.

“I am not everyone. And as Draco’s ex-girlfriend, I might offer you some insight, just in case you misestimate his reaction,” Pansy said. It was even true - these days, who knew what Draco might do if he was angry?

Greengrass was blinking, looking confused - a look her friends had to be very familiar with - but Davis nodded. “We basically told him that Daphne is no trophy to be taken to spite Potter. Or to make his ex-girlfriend jealous.”

“And that he doesn’t measure up to Harry!” Greengrass added, nodding several times. “Not in looks, nor character, nor money, nor Quidditch, nor friends.”

Pansy almost whistled. That would have done it, yes. Dravo would be livid indeed. “Harsh, but true, though only if you count Potter’s godfather’s money - Potter by himself certainly has not much gold.” By any civilized standard, of course. It was a good thing he already had a mistress who did not need much upkeep.

“Of course you’d care about that!” Greengrass huffed.

Pansy shrugged. Of course she’d care to know how much gold people had - she had to know who mattered. Potter was a special case anyway, as the Boy-Who-Lived, the Slayer of Slytherin’s Monster, and the winner of the Triwizard Tournament in his fourth year. “I’d give it even odds for Draco to either avenge this ‘slight on his honour’, as he might call it, or attempt to beat Potter again, to prove you wrong.”

“What’s he likely to do to achieve that? Challenge Potter to a beauty contest?” Davis joked, but Pansy could see that she seemed to understand that Draco was not to be taken that lightly.

“Don’t give him ideas. But he’ll try to beat him in Quidditch, again, and maybe try for a duel,” Pansy added. A duel between those two… the teachers would likely step in. The last time they had done that, in DADA class, had been a disaster.

“He’ll lose! As he always does!” Greengrass exclaimed. A Potter fangirl indeed. Draco had had some successes, Pansy knew that well, even if others tended to mostly remember the more spectacular missteps and defeats against Potter. And Quidditch, of course.

She shrugged. “Well, we’ll see. Just watch your back for a bit.” She nodded at Davis. “Might share a room for a bit. Or a bed.” According to some rumors, the two did that often enough, if probably not for the reasons the wizards of their year assumed. Again Pansy wondered what Davis’s game was. Unless the witch was in love with Greengrass - but if so, the twit was unaware of it. In any case, sixth year should shed more light on that.

“Good evening, Davis, Greengrass.”

“Good evening, Parkinson.”

“May the force be with you!”

That line made Pansy almost stumble when she walked away. If Greengrass was that much a fan, and thought Pansy was the same, since she had apparently picked Star Wars over her boyfriend… Merlin help her if the twit tried to bond with her!

*****

Inside his new mansion - purchased under an alias from a blood traitor who was leaving Britain in a panic - the Dark Lord Voldemort watched as Steinberg fit Bellatrix with a new wand. One could easily see that his new wandmaker had been working under Grindelwald - he didn’t flinch at all at working with the most feared dark witch of Britain.

“Dragon heartstring and oak.”

Bellatrix flicked the wand, but no more than a few sparks appeared.

“Dragon teeth and yew.”

Voldemort’s most loyal, and most beautiful and brave, follower produced more sparks this time, but still not perfect.

“Dragon’s blood and yew.”

Bella’s next swish filled the room with colors and flashing lights. With a delighted squeal she turned to the Dark Lord. “Master! It fits even better than my original wand.”

“That’s entirely logical, Miss,” Steinberg cut in while he was stashing the other wands in his chest. “People change as they grow older, and what fit a girl of eleven years might not fit the woman she has become.”

“You have done well, wandmaker.” Voldemort nodded at the older wizard. “Though I wonder why your selection seemed so … conventional. According to rumors, you had some rather unusual designs as well.”

“I did, and I still have them. But I’d rather not give them out without further testing. There were some issues with the last models, before I had to stop my research.” Steinberg smiled ruefully at the memory of what most of Magical Europe considered a day of celebration, Grindelwald’s defeat. “I am optimistic that given the opportunity, I can perfect my designs.”

“You will have it, though at the moment we still have to proceed with caution and stealth.” The Dark Lord wrapped an arm around his Bella and planted a kiss on the top of her head before addressing her. “Which is why you cannot demonstrate your loyalty and love by slaying my enemies. Yet. They still assume you are dead, and this ignorance benefits us.” And sending a few imperiused mudbloods to cause mayhem helped his recruiting efforts as well.

“But soon, Master. They suspect your return already, even in the newspaper.” Bella licked her lips and drew a shuddering breath.

“Soon.” He looked at the wandmaker again. “I am quite curious to see how your inventions perform, Steinberg. Especially when put against Ollivander’s best work.”

The German scoffed. “Ollivander is overrated. He has forgotten the roots of our art. The first wands were not crafted from unicorn or dragon parts, but from the blood and bones of wizards, and they craved more blood in battle.”

Voldemort thought that the official lore, staves turning into wands as runes small enough to handle the strain of magic were developed, sounded more plausible, but as long as the designs worked, Steinberg could think what he liked. And while the Dark Lord was no expert in wandmaking, he had mastered the Dark Arts like no one else - and the German’s designs were steeped in their lore. Should his followers wield such things, the Aurors would not know what hit them.

But of course extensive testing would be required before Voldemort would allow anyone from his marked followers to wield such a wand. The reports he had seen, decades ago, painted a rather grim picture of what had happened to those who had used Steinberg’s earliest designs.

Bella was breathing heavily, and Voldemort felt a familiar stirring. “I am sure you can fit the rest of my followers now, Steinberg. I will retire to my study.”

The wandmaker nodded, seemingly unconcerned. He might be one of those people who truly only cared about their art. Not the most loyal followers one could find, but as long as they had the freedom to practise their craft, they’d never stab you in the back. Especially if there was no one else for them to turn to.

Voldemort nodded at the man and left, Bellatrix never leaving his side.

*****

“Why don’t you arrest all those mudbloods before they kill everyone of us!?”

Kenneth Fenbrick struggled to resist the urge to hex the idiot shouting at him and his partner, Bertha Limmington, while they were trying to investigate yet another disappearance, this time in Hogsmeade. It wouldn’t do any favors to his career. Though maybe he could arrest the moron as a sympathizer of … whoever was behind those kidnappings and attacks. He could hex the guy then for resisting…

“Ignore him.” Bertha didn’t even look up from the patch of torn up cobblestone - whoever had been taken here hadn’t gone quietly.

“He’s too loud to be ignored. He is so loud, actually, he’s interfering with our investigation!” Kenneth answered, glaring at the man while he raised his voice. The idiot seemed to realise, finally, just how close he was to spending a few hours in the custody of Aurors - overworked, testy and frustrated Aurors - and made a hasty retreat. “I really wonder if he’s not working for the kidnappers, trying to stir up trouble against muggleborns.”

“It’s unlikely they’d bother with such a small profile. Given the scope of their attacks, they’d focus on the press, and on more influential members of society.” The witch was being too reasonable again.

“Maybe that’s what they want us to think.” Kenneth wasn’t being contradictory, not really. As a good Auror, he simply couldn’t dismiss a possible lead without evidence to the contrary.

“Or whoever is behind this wants us to arrest innocent, scared people in order to drive a wedge between the Ministry and the population.” Neither Bertha nor Kenneth were saying who they strongly suspected was behind all this. Even though both Aurors were certain who that was, after the report from the Department of Mysteries had confirmed that a dozen corpses of Death Eaters found on Azkaban had been polyjuiced kidnapping victims. Muggleborns at that.

“Then he’d have stayed around to actually get arrested!” Kenneth refuted that argument.

“Which would strongly hint at him not being an agent for those criminals.” Bertha still had not looked up; the witch’s ability to keep working while carrying on a conversation with Kenneth was impressive and would have made a lesser wizard jealous.

“Or they didn’t think of your plan. They are not perfect, after all.” Kenneth sighed. “Let’s wrap this up. Three different wands used. One by the victim, presumably, two by the attackers. No witnesses, other than those who heard the explosion - which was half the village.” And hadn’t been collecting those statements a pain! Fortunately, that was why junior Aurors existed, as far as Kenneth was concerned. “We won’t find the victim until he surfaces later.” Polyjuiced into someone else, or sacrificed, or imperiused, Kenneth thought, but did not say.

“We haven’t talked to the guests in the ‘Hog’s Head Inn’ yet,” his pretty but far too duty-conscious partner pointed out.

“Auror Black-Tonks did talk to a few regulars living in Hogsmeade. They haven’t seen anything, and half of them mistook the explosion for a prank or a flashback ‘to the war’.” Kenneth shook his head. “You know the crowd that frequents that inn, Bertha. They’d not have seen or heard anything even if it had happened on their doorstep, or right inside!”

“That’s one more reason for us to talk to them.” Bertha was undeterred. She stood up and set out for the disreputable inn.

And no Auror would let their partner enter such a location without backup. Sighing, Kenneth followed her, sneaking a peek at her rump until he caught up with her. That early in the morning, the inn wouldn’t even have the sort of entertainment that rumors claimed it sported in the evening. But hopefully the more rowdy and belligerent guests would not be present either. “Most of the guests won’t be there now anyway, and we already got the list of the names of those who were around last evening from Black-Tonks.”

“But Dumbledore will be there, as will those who are staying at the inn,” Bertha answered primly. Unless they had bailed out already - something Kenneth wouldn’t put past them, given the inn’s reputation.

“Aberforth Dumbledore. The Goat Wizard.” Kenneth didn’t groan, but felt like it. The black sheep of the Dumbledore family. To think such a great man could have such a disappointing, shady brother…

They knocked but then had to wait a bit until finally the door was opened, and the two Aurors came face to face with Aberforth Dumbledore.

“What do you want again?” the old wizard asked without bothering to hide his annoyance.

“Mister Dumbledore? I am Bertha Limmington and this is my partner, Kenneth Fenbrick. We’re Aurors investigating the disappearance of Hugh Welles last night, not too far from your inn. May we come inside?”

The old wizard made some noise that could have meant anything, but stepped aside, letting them enter. The ‘Hog’s Head Inn’ didn’t seem to have changed since Kenneth’s last visit there, or since his first visit as a student even. Well-maintained, though, despite its reputation.

“I already told the girl you sent that we didn’t see anything, and only heard an explosion.” Dumbledore summoned a bottle of ale for himself, but didn’t offer the two Aurors anything.

“Yes, sir. But we were wondering if you or one of your guests might have seen something before that incident. Anything suspicious, or strange.” Bertha didn’t let the abrasive attitude of the innkeeper faze her.

“There was nothing of that sort inside my inn,” Dumbledore said. Before Kenneth could cut in, he added: “And we don’t care much about what goes on outside.” He took a swill from his bottle.

“Until someone sets it on fire,” Kenneth bit out. “Ignoring what’s going on won’t help anyone.”

The wizard shrugged. “So? Ignoring us worked well so far for everyone else.”

“‘Us’, Sir?” Bertha asked, lightly stepping on Kenneth’s foot.

“Me and my regulars and guests,” the innkeeper explained.

Kenneth didn’t feel like asking how they were supposedly ignored. That was what this type wanted, to air their grievances and list the ways they were hurt by Wizarding Britain, to excuse how they were hurting society in turn.

Fortunately, Bertha didn’t ask either, but simply nodded. “Should you or anyone else recall anything, please inform the DMLE. Lives could be depending on it.”

The Headmaster’s brother scoffed, and took another gulp from his bottle. Kenneth took that as their cue to leave. Theoretically they could wake up the guests in the inn, but Kenneth doubted that would lead to anything but more claims of ignorance. And something - his experience with overprotective fathers or heads of families, to be exact - told him that the innkeeper wouldn’t like it if Kenneth tried to chat up the prettier guests while they were still half-asleep.

The two Aurors stepped over to the floo, Kenneth grabbing some powder and stating their destination: “Transit Station!”

*****

“That was a waste of time!”

Kenneth didn’t like stepping through the Thief’s Downfall in the Transit Station. The way water ran down all over his robe, suppressing all the charms on it, soaking him and his hair… he was sure the goblins had made certain that it would be as annoying and uncomfortable as possible. Nasty little buggers.

He waited until the Hit-Wizard on duty nodded to him before using his wand to dry himself off. Being too hasty with his wand could lead to dangerous misunderstandings here - Hit-Wizards were, after all, no Aurors. Only trained for battle, they were far too quick to hex and curse, and lacked the training in investigation to tell them when they should stay their wands and watch and listen first.

Kenneth and Bertha quickly stepped away from the floo they had arrived through, barely in time for the next arrival to come through, that one cursing loudly at getting soaked. The Auror thought he saw one Hit-Wizard grin at that. He couldn’t blame the man - if he had to do duty there, complete with mandatory legilimency checks to ensure his loyalty, he’d take his entertainment where he could as well. But as an Auror, he was much too valuable to be sent on guard duty.

Unlike most others, the two Aurors went through the door leading to the Ministry, instead of taking one of the normal Floo connections on the other side of the room, where privacy charms had been placed on the chimneys, for those travelers who liked their destination to remain discreet. At least from other travelers - the Ministry could check the Floo records if it was needed.

More work awaited the two in their office. There were forms and reports to fill out, notes from other cases to check and revise if needed. Without duplication charms Britain’s livestock would have become extinct long ago just to handle the DMLE’s need for parchment, or at least Kenneth thought so. He sighed upon spotting a small fleet of paper planes circling his desk. “Why do I always have to deal with all the stupid requests from other departments?”

“Because your idea of a report gives the boss fits,” Bertha dead-panned.

Kenneth pouted at her. “It was a rhetorical question.” He thought he had caught her grinning before she sat down and started writing.

A few hours later - the Auror was almost done with the request from the Magical Maintenance Department, who wanted to know when they could start fixing the road in Hogsmeade - an owl landed on Bertha’s desk. He didn’t pay much attention until he saw her cast a series of detection spells at it. Then he had his wand in hand at once. “Trouble?”

“Unknown sender,” his partner answered. The owls had to pass through a few wards until they were allowed inside the Ministry, but that didn’t make the system fool-proof. And a missing address for the sender rang some alarm bells. Bertha finished casting and, apparently satisfied with the results, opened the letter.

“Who’s it from?” Kenneth asked. He wasn’t that curious, but as long as it kept him from dealing with the cobblestone repair crew…

“It doesn’t say.”

“Another anonymous complaint?” They had gotten a few of those. Not many - most of them were handled by others in the Ministry.

“No. An anonymous report about the kidnapping. Apparently, someone saw the whole thing. Six attackers, faces masked - not the kind of masks we might have expected though. Two took the victim down, the rest stood guard. Or waited - the author of the note doesn’t seem too impressed by the skill displayed, but mentioned the group seemed to have had some experience working together, probably as mercenaries. Plus there’s a description of the wands.” His partner was still reading while she listed the contents of the letter.

A description of the wands used? If it was no hoax, then someone either was a genius, or they had access to a pensieve. Neither fit with the reputation of the ‘Hog’s Head Inn’.

Bertha looked up at Kenneth with a smile. “Looks like someone saw something.”

“Don’t say it!” he growled.

She didn’t, but her grin said enough.

*****

“And I had to ask every damn resident of Hogsmeade for a statement! It took me hours, and no one had seen anything!”

“The perils of working as an Auror.”

Sirius Black didn’t bother to hide his grin. Nymphadora complaining about her work was rather amusing, and in these times, any laugh was a good thing. Remus trying to hide his own grin was amusing as well. Not that his friend would admit to either having feelings for the young witch, or trying to get over her. But he was trying, at least. Which was a good thing as well - Nymphadora was head over heels in love with Viktor, and the Quidditch player returned her feelings. Remus would be only asking for grief if he tried anything.

Chantal, Eugénie, Laure and Valérie giggled. Nymphadora glared at them, which didn’t seem to impress the four Veela at all.

“Well, you’re off work now, Nymphadora. Cheer up!” Remus, ever the peacemaker, tried to appease the young Auror.

“Indeed. As the resident expert, you can now show us all the wonders of muggle-style clubbing.” A bit belatedly, Sirius realised that teasing their guide to muggle London might not have been a smart idea. Not that Nymphadora would need much of a push to prank them - Sirius had fortunately been able to double-check her clothes advice thanks to his Playboy subscription. Really, a ‘white polyester suit’? Even muggles had better taste than that!

Instead he and Remus were dressed in slacks, floaters and nice shirts - all expensive labels, of course. You had to show your wealth, people were so much more tolerant of the rich. And Maybe Remus would be able to score with a muggle girl.

The wardrobe of his four French house guests had been easy to pick as well - he had asked Hermione’s parents for a good tailor, had been told a few names of shops to visit, had called a cab and sent the girls off. It had been gold well spent - the Veela were clad in very nice dresses. Not as revealing as they and Sirius himself were used to, alas. But they had to make some allowances if they wanted to go clubbing in a country that was not trembling with fear from Voldemort. No risk of attacks by imperiused muggleborns was worth more conservative clothes as well. And of course, once the Dark Lord had been dealt with, excursions such as this one would make great anecdotes to tell during dinner invitations.

The metamorphmagus looked them over. “Right. You lot look OK for Muggle London.”

“We won’t draw undue attention then?” Remus asked.

“Oh, you’ll draw attention, alright. Just not the undue kind.” Nymphadora grinned. Sirius had a sudden bad feeling.

*****

A few hours later, Sirius was all too aware of what Nymphadora had meant. The little minx had known the effect four Veela, even dressed rather conservatively, would have on muggles. Judging by the amount of people bothering them, Sirius could almost believe the tales of Veela auras bewitching wizards. Or witches.

“Hey there! Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Another brute was making a move, on Eugénie this time.

“Pardon? Parlez-vous francais?” The Veela smiled innocently.

“Oh… you’re French?” He gaped at her.

“Je ne comprends pas. Qu’est-ce que vous dites?” Eugénie kept smiling at the man as if she didn’t understand a single word.

“Ah…“ The man, barely 20 Sirius would guess, finally closed his mouth and looked at the rest of their group. Chantal, Laure and Valérie copied Eugénie and looked as if they had not understood a word either. Remus seemed to find the dance floor very interesting. Or he was actually keeping an eye out for Nymphadora, who had gone to the ladies’ room. Sirius put on a blank look. He should be able to pass for French too.

“Hey, you look English. Can you translate for me? I want to hit on the bird here, and she doesn’t speak English. Tell her I think she’s very pretty. Sexy even.”

Now it was Sirius’s turn to gape. Had that jerk just asked for his help in seducing Sirius’s own girlfriend?

“Oh, you’re a slow one. No problem!” The young man pointed at Sirius, himself and Eugénie in an exaggerated manner while speaking very slowly, as if he was talking to an idiot: “You tell her, me think she pretty.”

Sirius wanted to hex the guy badly. Where was their native guide when she was needed? She’d know how to tell this obnoxious guy to… wait a minute. He narrowed his eyes. The young brute letting out a girlish giggle clinched it. Nymphadora! “I should hex you for that!”

The metamorphmagus winked at him and left to change back while the rest of their group had a laugh at Sirius’s reaction. Well, let no one say Sirius couldn’t take a joke. His vengeance would be terrible, of course.

Valérie, sitting in Sirius’s lap, turned towards him. “Let’s dance some more!” The young Veela hadn’t been bothered by horny men nearly as much as the rest of her cousins since she had not left his side or lap at all. It was understandable - the sheer number of muggles they were surrounded by was more than a bit daunting. Sirius though didn’t think the girl was quite as intimidated as she claimed to be, but he wasn’t about to complain. Truth to be told, he was not as confident as he acted either, but on the whole, surrounded by so many people, so many lively, dancing, happy people, was about as big a contrast to Azkaban’s isolation as one could get.

And the dance floor was the most crowded spot in the club. With the four Veela pressed against him, dancing wildly to exotic music, Sirius didn’t miss the magical world, or its problems.

*****

‘Death Eaters on the loose!’ ‘Azkaban corpses polyjuiced kidnapping victims!’ ‘Is You-Know-Who back?’

Harry Potter would have thought that after the rumors and speculation of the weeks before, confirmation of Voldemort’s return - or almost confirmation; who but the Dark Lord would free all his followers, and massacre everyone else? - wouldn’t have that big of an impact. People had already feared his return, after all. And yet the latest Daily Prophet had caused a panic in the Great Hall in Hogwarts.

Students were trembling, many were crying, even the teachers were looking less than composed - with the exception of Dumbledore, McGonagall and Flitwick. And the new Potions Master and Head of House Slytherin, Horace Slughorn. The corpulent wizard seemed to have been made of sterner stuff than his jovial nature indicated. But then, he had been Snape’s predecessor, so he must have had plenty of experience. Harry’s friends had known about Voldemort already, and so were not affected either.

“At least with so many kidnapping victims being muggleborns, the rumors about this being a muggleborn ploy should abate somewhat,” Hermione commented. His girlfriend seemed to be trying to ignore the spectacle around them.

“I wouldn’t bet on that, Hermione,” Aicha put in. “Logic has not much of a place when people are panicking.”

“And the paranoid will think it’s simply misdirection by muggleborns,” Luna added, between scarfing down her porridge.

“It’ll help some though. And now, with Death Eaters revealed, some at least should stop speaking out against muggleborns, even if only to avoid getting painted as sympathizers of Voldemort.” Harry briefly squeezed Hermione’s thigh under the table. “At least now the secret’s out. People know they need to protect themselves.”

Ron didn’t share Harry’s view. “People are panicking. Students here, their families at home, everyone is trembling with fear. Everyone but the Death Eaters and their friends,” he added, with a glance towards Malfoy, who was looking almost smug.

Harry snorted. “If Voldemort recruited Malfoy, then his standards have sunk so low, he needs to dig a hole.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that Britain’s going to be an ugly place for a while.” Ron refilled his cup of pumpkin juice.

“Do you think the Ministry is prepared for this?”

“They should be. Dumbledore has known about it for some time, and he’s the Chief Warlock.” Neville nodded towards the staff table, where the teachers were conferring behind privacy spells.

“But the Dark Lord might be prepared as well.” Ginny sounded scared, and inched closer to Neville.

“It depends on who leaked this to the press. If it was the Ministry, then they’ll be prepared. If it was someone else…” Harry trailed off. The students were safe at Hogwarts, and his family was safe behind the wards of Grimmauld Place, and the blood protection of Privet Drive. But a lot of families couldn’t afford those kind of protections.

“The article sounds too certain to be based on information from outside the Ministry. Unless of course the author is trusting Voldemort,” Luna commented.

“There’s not much we can do but wait and see,” Hermione said. Harry didn’t like it, but his love was right. They couldn’t do much right now but wait. Wait, train and research.

Further discussion and speculation was cut short by Dumbledore’s amplified voice drowning out all talk: “Students, we all have heard this distressing news. There is no need to panic though - you all are safe at Hogwarts, and steps have been taken already at the Ministry to deal with this threat. Please return to your dorms. There will be no lessons today, but your heads of houses will address you later.”

“No lessons! At least there is one good thing to come from this,” Ron commented.

“No training opportunities either, if we’re confined to the dorms,” Hermione added, frowning at their friend.

“They can’t keep us penned up all day, can they?” Ron looked at his brothers a bit down the table. “Some people will get very… bored.”

“And we cannot meet our friends from other houses either.” Nor, Harry realised, could they get some privacy. Hermione would have to act as his retainer all day long.

He squeezed her thigh again. It was all he could do right then.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort smiled at his Death Eaters, gathered in the hall in his new mansion. It wasn’t a throne room, yet, but he had transfigured a chair into a seat fit for himself and placed it at the head of the massive table. Only those of his followers who had been incarcerated in Azkaban were present, to honour their sacrifice. And to keep the identities of his other agents secret. While his faithful would rather die than reveal anything, Veritaserum and Legilimency didn’t care about a wizard’s loyalty. To his right sat Bellatrix, his witch. To his left, Rookwood. The two most important members of his inner circle.

Voldemort was certain that his Bellatrix would be fidgeting on her chair with anticipation, had her family not beaten impeccable manners into her. She knew what was coming. Steinberg had provided everyone at the table with a wand that fitted them. The Daily Prophet had revealed his deception with the polyjuiced mudbloods left at Azkaban, and the country was shaking with fear.

While no one was openly stating that the Dark Lord had returned, Dumbledore would know it now.

The Dark Lord stood up, and raised his glass. “My friends! Britain trembles at the mere rumors of our presence. The time to hide is over! Now is the time to finish what we started over twenty years ago!”

As his faithful rose and cheered, the Dark Lord smiled widely. Britain would pay for what it had done to him and his!

*****


	24. War

**Chapter 24: War**

“Mum? Dad? We need to talk,” Hermione Granger said as soon as she, Harry and Sirius had entered her home.

Her parents jerked at those words and quickly turned to glare at her boyfriend, then at his godfather, who seemed to be distracted by the wall-mounted wireless phone. Before they could say anything though, Hermione quickly added: “I’m not pregnant.”

She could see her parents relax at that, then frown at her. Her dad sent another glare at Sirius and muttered something about ‘bad influences’. Her mother elbowed him, then ushered them all into the living room before starting to make tea.

“You knew what they would think!” Harry grumbled next to her when they took their seats. She stuck out her tongue at him. A bit of levity before the talk turned serious had seemed like a good idea when she had been thinking about how best to broach the reason for their visit. And everyone’s reaction had been funny.

Her boyfriend rolled his eyes. “Sirius is a bad influence on her!” he complained to Hermione’s father, who was still frowning a bit.

“Of course I am!” Harry’s godfather gleefully admitted, proud of it even. Then he added: “But unfortunately, even my influence has its limits. Despite my best efforts to move things along, the two of them still haven’t slept with each other!” He managed to make it sound as if that was a tragedy of epic proportions too.

While her dad was gaping at the wizard and stammering something unintelligible, Harry exclaimed: “Sirius!”

Hermione wished she knew a Stinging Hex that would get through the protections on the robes of the impossible man. She settled for giving him her best glare. “We’ll certainly not tell you when we’re having sex!”

When everyone turned to stare at her, she realised that Sirius really had been a bad influence on her, in more ways than one. Not that Nymphadora was not to blame as well though. The young witch covered her face with her left hand and muttered. “That came out wrong.” Smiling sheepishly at her father, she said: “What I meant was that we’ll sleep with each other when we are ready for such an important step in our relationship, and not a day before.” Her dad was still staring at her. Drat.

At least things had settled down a bit when her mother arrived with tea and scones. The woman raised an eyebrow when she noticed the two blushing teenagers, Sirius grinning like a loon, and her husband shaking his head, but she didn’t comment. After Nymphadora’s visit, it took a lot to shock Hermione’s mum.

Sipping her tea, Hermione gathered her thoughts. “Mum, Dad. Things have been happening in Wizarding Britain. I am sorry to say, but it affects you as well, and it’s all my fault.”

She pulled out a few issues of the Daily Prophet from her enchanted bag and showed them to her parents while she explained the situation. The young witch didn’t tell them anything that wasn’t public knowledge though - Dumbledore had been very clear on the need for secrecy. After explaining about the Death Eaters and Harry’s role in the last war against them, she finished with: “Those maniacs really hate muggleborns, and as my parents, you’re in danger.” She didn’t add that she was responsible for Harry becoming her Patron. That was a secret her parents didn’t need to know, like they didn’t need to know the effects of that relationship. Ignorance was bliss in this case.

Her parents looked at each other. Her father then turned to her. “It seems to me that you’re the one in danger, Hermione. You’re a muggleborn, and quite close to the Boy-Who-Lived. You were hurt in that tournament when they were trying to get him, weren’t you?”

Hermione grimaced. Her parents were no fools. “Because I am close to Harry, I’m sharing his protection. And as the hero of Britain, he’s got the best protection possible.”

“I do not see much of a security detail. No offense, Sirius.” Her mother stated in a calm voice.

Sirius wasn’t offended. “We’ve got people outside. Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain, and my home has some of the strongest wards and other defenses. Trust me, your daughter is safe with Harry.”

“They’ll have to go through me if they want to harm her!” Harry stated with utter conviction, taking Hermione’s hand. She smiled at him, and refrained from adding that they would have to go through her to get to him first. Though her parents might suspect that already. They knew her well, after all.

“In any case, as the parents of Harry’s girlfriend, you’re in danger,” Sirius said. “While the Death Eaters do not know much about the muggle world, and might not even think of using ‘mere muggles’ as leverage, we cannot count on their incompetence and inexperience to protect you. Your address is kept a secret by the Ministry, as part of the protection for Harry, but the Ministry is certain to have a few moles in it. It would be safer if you’d move to a flat under a new name.”

“I would feel much better knowing you’re safe too!” Hermione pleaded with her parents. They had to understand the dangers.

“Even if we would be moving out, what about our work?” her dad asked. “We cannot simply stop working.”

“Actually, you can,” Sirius smiled broadly at Hermione’s parents. “I’ll cover it.”

The young muggleborn witch winced. Apparently, Sirius hadn’t really understood her when she had tried to explain that her parents wouldn’t simply accept his money. In Wizarding Britain, providing for a retainer’s family in need was a Patron’s duty, after all, and since Harry was still a minor, as his godfather and guardian, Sirius was pretty much expected to step up in a situation such as this. But her parents wouldn’t accept such help, since they didn’t saw themselves as part of his extended family, as wizards would do. Their pride in their careers didn’t help, and neither did that they still thought they and not Harry were responsible for Hermione.

Before her parents could refuse - and probably insult Sirius in the process without realizing it - Hermione cut in: “Dad, mum, this is like a witness protection program. The Ministry would cover the costs for this directly, but it’s safer if Sirius fronts the money. Spies inside the Ministry won’t be able to find out about the arrangements that way. He’ll recover the costs, don’t worry.” She smiled, and tried to look as convincing as she could. She wasn’t really lying - Sirius would recover the costs, just not from the Ministry, but from his investments.

Fortunately, Harry was on the ball. “Yes. Don’t worry about it, he can handle the Ministry. He arranged mine and Hermione’s protection detail as well.”

She sent her boyfriend a grateful smile, then glared at Sirius until he nodded.

“Money’s no issue at all, trust me,” Sirius said. He still didn’t understand the problem, Hermione realised, but he was going along with Harry and herself. That kind of trust felt good.

“Well, if the government is paying…” Hermione’s dad had a glint in his eyes, and Hermione winced when she saw her mum nod slowly. Sirius was really rich, she told herself again. And her parents would be safe. She still had to bite her lips when she heard ‘World Cruise’.

*****

Keith Yennington had been planning his flight from Britain for a while. Just in case things went wrong, though - if the Dark Lord conquered Britain, then being one of the first who had taken his mark after his return would be a very good thing. But a good mercenary - and Keith prided himself on his skill and experience - always had a way out if things turned against their employer. Their Lord, he corrected himself. Only the insane would risk not showing the Dark Lord the proper respect.

The wizard noticed that he had been rubbing his left forearm again, and scowled, placing his right hand on his hip. Just because he was marked didn’t mean he was tied to the man. He was a free, pureblood wand for hire, not a mudblood retainer! The only reason he stayed was the huge reward he was looking forward to if Britain fell.

He glanced at his group of hired wands. Blasius Meister, Brendan Petersen, Hortensius Gimblen, Wulfred Brimharst and Hannah Douglas. They still were not as disciplined and skilled as he’d like, but his group was more than Hit-Wizard bait now. And they were properly motivated too - he was certain that more than one of them had almost soiled himself when they realised just who they had been working for all this time. That was a good thing, since tonight’s mission was important. They’d show Britain that it was at war now by placing the Dark Mark above the ruins of a mudblood home. They would do well to fear failure.

Keith glanced at the other witch in the room, Bellatrix Lestrange. The Dark Lord’s most feared follower. She scared him too. Probably as much if not even more than the Dark Lord himself did. Nominally, she was just coming along to observe how Keith’s group performed. But Keith had seen enough crazy wands to know she was just itching to kill or torture someone. He almost hoped that there would be a Hit-Wizard response, just so the crazy dark witch wouldn’t attack him or his group.

“Everyone ready?”

He tried to ignore the smiling Bellatrix nearby and stared at one after another of the assembled mercenaries - if that term still applied to them, now that they had taken the black robes and white masks of the Dark Lord. Their answering nods varied in eagerness. Wulfred was chomping at his bit, Hannah looked cool and detached. The rest seemed more or less nervous.

“Masks up, we’re going in. We’re following the usual plan: Hannah and Blasius will block the apparition, Floo Network and disillusion spells, then break the wards. Wulfred and Brendan will cover the rear of the target. I and Hortensius will cover the front.”

They hadn’t done this often enough for him to skip the orders, but often enough for them to believe he could. Too confident for their experience, but there was nothing he could do about it - just about every hired wand, and probably every Hit-Wizard too, went through the same stage of overconfidence. Those who survived it would know better.

“Go!”

They appeared on a small hill overlooking their target - a decently-sized house at the edge of a village. Probably a muggle house turned into a mockery of a wizard home by an over-ambitious mudblood. It would serve well to mark the start of the Dark Lord’s war.

Another apparition took him to the front of the house. Next to him, Bellatrix appeared. A few seconds later the rest of his group was in position. Sloppy, he thought, frowning. Not that anyone would see his expression - a drawback of wearing a mask. Staring down uppity members of his group would be far more difficult, even though he liked the anonymity it granted him.

Faint screams from inside the house showed the inhabitants had noticed the attack on their wards. Hopefully they’d panic, it would make the mission easier.

“I wish the Hit-Wizards would be here already. Simply watching some recruits butcher mudbloods would be boring,” Bellatrix said sighing.

He didn’t take his eyes off the house. He was a professional. But he could talk while watching. “We’ve blocked the Floo, and owls would take too long. How could they call for help?”

“They belong to the Longbottoms. They may be blood traitors, but they are an old family. They’ll have ways for their mudbloods to contact them.” Bellatrix giggled. “They’d better just call the Hit-Wizards, but Longbottoms are a stubborn and proud bunch. They will arrive.”

“Their Head is still in Hogwarts,” Keith answered, still not looking at the witch, “and there are not many other family members left.” According to rumors he had heard, Longbottom was the friend of the Boy-Who-Lived, but that was all he knew about the kid.

“Mhhh.” She didn’t share his opinion, that much was obvious.

“You want them to appear, so you can show they cannot protect their mudbloods.”

“Mhh.”

He glanced briefly at her, and she beamed at him. Shivering, he focused on the house again. “How long until the wards are down?” He cut himself off before he added Hannah’s name. He needed a way to address individual members of his group without revealing their identities. Maybe code names? That wouldn’t work well once they mixed with other groups though.

“A few more minutes,” Hannah told him in her usual clipped way.

Before he could say anything else, a series of popping noises alerted him to the arrival of reinforcements. Hit-wizards, or Longbottoms.

“Yes!” Bellatrix exclaimed. A second later, part of the street leading to the house blew up and the witch charged off. More explosions soon followed. And screams. Merlin, Keith was glad she was on their side! And to think that before he had met her, he had thought her reputation was overblown...

He shouted to his group: “Break down those wards! We just got company, and our guest is having fun with them!”

“We’re doing what we can, we’re almost done!” Blasius shouted back. The idiot shouldn’t waste his breath on answering, Keith thought.

Then he heard another scream, from behind the house. Had the mudbloods made a break for it? No, there were spells flashing from the woods behind the house. Another force was hitting them in the rear. At least half a dozen wands, judging by the number of spells raining down on Brendan and Wulfred’s position in the backyard.

“Hortensius, with me!” he shouted, secrecy be cursed, and started running towards the rear of the house. That was a well-organized pincer attack. He wouldn’t have thought the Hit-Wizards were still that sharp after almost a decade and a half of peace. “Set it ablaze as soon as possible!” he shouted as he passed Hannah. They’d need the distraction.

He was just rounding the corner when he heard another scream that turned into a horrible gurgling sound. As he had expected he saw one of his wizards clutching his throat, trying to stem the blood flowing down the front of his robe. An Episkey wouldn’t help there and Keith didn’t know any better healing spells, so he didn’t even try to help the wounded. He hoped it was Wulfred, the man was a trouble maker. The loud cursing from the masked wizard returning fire told him that it was Brendan who was dying though.

Thanks to the lights from spells and burning trees the new Death Eater could make out several wizards moving towards them, casting rapidly at Wulfred. Keith snarled and sent a Blasting Curse at one of them. He missed, but not by much, and the explosion threw the wizard to the ground. They were running out of time - more reinforcements would have been called for after they had seen Bellatrix. It was time to send in their own reserves. Darting back around the corner of the house to break line of sight, he pulled his left sleeve back and pressed his wand tip to his mark, hissing at the sudden pain that caused him.

He moved ahead again, but had to duck a red curse that blew up a tree in the backyard, and rolled into cover behind a rock. When the stone turned into a bear he blasted it to pieces and jumped to the side before a Blasting Curse hit his own position. His Shield Charm was still hit with fragments of rock and earth. Keith dodged a few more spells falling back towards the front of the house again, Hortensius and Wulfred following him.

A quick look over his shoulder showed the tell-tale flashes and blasts of an intense battle - Bellatrix was still fighting then. But sooner or later someone would get lucky and nail her - if they didn’t lose their nerve and broke ranks.

“They are escaping!” Wulfred shouted. Then the fool broke cover and ran forward, to get into position to curse the fleeing mudbloods. The wizard got what he deserved for his stupidity and was cut down by several spells - some of them from above. Their enemies had taken to the air!

No, those were the mudbloods, fleeing on brooms! Merlin, if he had just a few of those crazy French broom riders he had worked with five years ago here! They’d catch those mudbloods in no time. He still cast at them, even though he knew he’d never hit them at that distance.

Then spells flew at the mudbloods from the side - the other Death Eaters had arrived, finally! And on brooms too! One of the mudbloods was hit with a killing curse, and went down. The other tried to save the child who was falling to the ground, and flew straight into another curse. She seemed to be still alive when her child hit the ground, but crashed into her own house right afterwards.

That broke the wizards attacking his group, and they started to retreat, no, to flee. Keith would have given chase, but he had already lost two of his group. The flyers could pursue them. Towards the village, the battle seemed to have ended as well. If Bellatrix had been defeated… “Come on, we need to check what happened there.” Hopefully, the broom riders above them would draw fire before his group.

As they cautiously advanced, they saw one figure coming towards them. Wild pitch-black hair blowing in the wind, a wand twirling around her fingers, Bellatrix looked not just unhurt, but untouched. And as delighted as if she had just had sex. Keith shivered again and turned back towards the house.

With the additional help, the wards were broken quickly and the house set on fire. Only one thing left to do.

Keith raised his wand towards the night sky.

“Mordsmordre!”

*****

At breakfast Hermione Granger felt like shaking her head at the majority of her fellow students. After the news of the Death Eaters’ escape had broken, they must have expected an attack by Death Eaters. That was why they were so shaken and shocked, after all! And yet, when today’s Daily Prophet had revealed that such an attack had happened, people were still panicking!

The young witch knew she was being unfair. Her own parents were safe, after all, unlike those of the vast majority of the students’. Still, was a little decorum and composure too much to ask for from the proud scions of pureblood families? After all, Hermione had been playing the good loyal retainer for more than four years in public, no matter her personal feelings.

Neville, the one here who actually was affected the most - two of his second or third cousins had died trying to save the murdered muggleborn family - was reading the letter from his grandmother, then studied the newspaper. “Jonathan. William.” He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. “Mum, dad.” Oh, yes - Bellatrix and her family had tortured his parents into insanity. Hermione had found that out researching the Death Eaters. And she’d been feeling smug at not freaking out like others… she suddenly felt rather ashamed at her own thoughts.

“You have my condolences for your loss, Neville,” Harry said. Hermione nodded at his side. For once, the young muggleborn witch didn’t mind the formality. The conventions that were to be followed in such a situation saved her from coming up with some attempt at consoling Neville on her own. She couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound cheap or hollow, or both.

“Mine too,” Ron added, quickly, followed by the rest of their friends. Shakingly, Neville nodded. Ginny put her hand on his arm, and he patted it. No one said anything for a while, and most were avoided looking at Neville, in case he lost his composure. He didn’t though.

“Harry.”

Hermione glanced at their friend, and saw he was staring straight at her boyfriend.

“I would like to ask you to train with you. This won’t be the only attack on my family.” Neville’s voice trembled slightly, but his expression was firm.

“Of course, Neville,” Harry quickly agreed. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“I want to join as well!” Ginny exclaimed. The redheaded witch glared at her brother, probably daring him to say anything. Ron didn’t though, he simply nodded at her and looked at Harry.

“Me too!” Luna spoke up, followed by Aicha nodding when everyone turned to look at the two witches. The third Ravenclaw at the Gryffindor table, Padma Patil, joined in: “I would like to learn how to fight as well.”

Harry simply kept nodding. “Of course, you’re all welcome.” It wasn’t as if there was any question of refusing this - with the Dark Lord launching such attacks, such training could save their lives. Like it had Harry’s and Hermione’s in Bulgaria.

In hindsight, they should have asked their friends to train with them long ago, secrecy be damned. Hermione felt more than a bit guilty about not having proposed such training for all of them. She’d have to make it up to them by providing them with an optimized schedule.

*****

Staring at the entrance to Knockturn Alley, Kenneth Fenbrick was not quite as happy about having been spared investigating the scene of the attack on the Ayers, the retainers of the Longbottoms, as he had been earlier that morning. He should have known he couldn’t be that lucky!

Next to him, his partner, Bertha Limmington, was looking around a bit too innocently. He stared at her, narrowing his eyes, but that had no effect on the Auror. As he should have known. “Aren’t you going to tell me to get on with our job?”

“I’m waiting for you to complain about it first,” the witch answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Kenneth frowned at her. He wasn’t that predictable, was he? His partner was the one following regulations slavishly, after all, while he was the maverick bending and sometimes breaking the rules. No matter what, he couldn’t complain now. “Let’s get on with it,” he grumbled instead, and entered the alley, pretending not to notice her brief smile.

Not that there was no cause to complain. The two were to ‘find out if anyone among the more prominent mercenaries in Knockturn Alley were involved in the attack on the Ayers’, as Bones had told them. Kenneth wondered where the list of names they had had come from - there was no clue left at the burned-out house, or so he had heard. They hadn’t even found any bodies at the location, neither victims nor attackers, despite the confirmed deaths. No one at the office had said what that meant, but everyone had thought it, of course. Inferi. To think they might have to face the reanimated corpses of their fallen comrades in battle… At least the dead had been Hit-Wizards Kenneth hadn’t known, he’d have an easier time facing them than their friends would have.

“The alley looks different, somehow, today,” he commented as they walked on.

Bertha raised an eyebrow at him, and he rolled his eyes. “I mean compared to my other visits.”

The eyebrow rose a bit higher, and she smirked a tiny bit.

“Official visits, on duty!” he bit out.

“Ah. I wouldn’t know - the last time I patrolled there was as a junior Auror.” Butter wouldn’t melt in Bertha’s mouth.

“Maybe I should tell Bones that even her best Aurors are not sufficiently familiar with key areas of our country,” Kenneth shot back. “Regular patrols there for everyone might help with that.”

“It would. But think of what kind of assignment you’d get as your next punishment, if patrols there are no longer special.” Another grin.

His partner had a point there, damn her! Instead of trying to find a comeback, he pointed at a floating sign depicting a nude witch dancing around a cauldron. “Let’s check this dive out first.”

The pub was as seedy as he expected, and near empty that time of the day. Less than half a dozen rough looking guests were staring at a nude witch dancing in the corner. If moving around like that while floating above a big cauldron, the green smoke rising from it alternatively hiding and exposing her, could be called ‘dancing’. Maybe Kenneth should take steps to keep himself familiar with Knockturn Alley. For professional reasons of course. Witches like that one would see and hear a lot, wouldn’t they?

“Stop ogling the witch, Kenneth. We have a job to do.” Bertha sounded slightly annoyed, so he did as she said.

As they walked towards the bar, he still had to commented: “She could know something.”

“Witches like her will do and say what they think you want to hear. They are not reliable.”

“Depends on what I want from them,” he added as a parting shot. Despite their exchange, both of them had their wands ready. This was Knockturn Alley, after all.

“We’re looking for Gerald Tuckle,” Bertha said when the girl working the bar looked at them with an expression of utter boredom.

“Dunno’im,” the girl answered at once. She probably would have said the same if Bertha had asked after the weather, Kenneth thought. No one in Knockturn Alley liked Aurors. He had watched the guests there though, and none of them had reacted either, even though all were paying far more attention to them than to the dancer now.

“Do you know Wulfred Brimharst?”

“Dunno’im.”

“Keith Yennington?”

“Dunno’im.”

The girl was still sounding as bored as before, but Kenneth had spotted the dancer almost lose a step at hearing the last name. He looked at Bertha, then back at the dancer, and tried not to smirk at his partner’s glare while he flipped a sickle towards the almost nude witch.

*****

A few hours later, Kenneth wasn’t smirking anymore. Visiting Knockturn Alley in Auror robes in bright daylight was one thing, but visiting the alley when the shadows grew longer, and wearing rather drab robes that didn’t tell the various predators that the wearer was part of the Ministry, and could call in reinforcements if needed, was another. He and Bertha were in a rather bad part of the alley too - a very narrow side alley, barely wide enough for a wizard to pass. Any fight would be a very quick, very lethal affair without room to dodge. The kind of fights a smart wizard avoided at almost any cost.

But the tracking spell on the coin he had tipped the dancer with was leading them down this alley. She had to be here, unless she had spent it already in the dive she had worked in. It was not too likely, or so he thought, given the prices there, and the kind of goods on sale, and she hadn’t ventured into the more legal shops in the alley either.

“This is it,” he said, pointing at a door with old scratch marks on it. He didn’t want to know what left those kind of scratches on a door that anyone using regularly would keep repaired in this area.

Bertha nodded and ran a few spells over the door while Kenneth kept an eye out for trouble. Fortunately, the residents seemed to be well-versed in ignoring potential trouble.

“It’s not trapped,” his partner said after a while.

Kenneth nodded - he trusted her implicitly when it came to those sorts of traps. It didn’t mean there was no ambush waiting for them, of course - in the last war, Knockturn Alley had quickly become a lawless zone due to ambushes and traps driving the patrols out. After the Dark Lord’s defeat, the alley had been retaken in a bloody, brutal campaign no one liked to talk about, not even Hit-Wizards. There was a reason the people and creatures living in Knockturn Alley hated the Ministry.

He knocked, then waited. After a bit, he heard a tired voice behind the door: “Who’s there?”

Procedure demanded that he’d announce they were Aurors. That would ruin the point of sneaking in under disguise though, and likely drive her away. That’s why he had proposed simply hiring her in disguise for a private dance, but Bertha had vetoed that plan. Instead he said, rather forcefully: “Ulrick wants his money!”

“What? I don’t owe him anything!” This wasn’t Ulrick’s turf, last Kenneth had known, so her owing him had been very unlikely.

“Don’t play games with us, Harnswood!” Kenneth knocked on the door again. “You don’t want us breaking down the door!”

“I don’t know any Harnswood! My name is Jerenson!” The girl was getting louder.

“Don’t lie to us! Open this door or we’ll break in!”

The door opened a gap, and Kenneth could see the massive chain that prevent it from opening further. He couldn’t see the wards, but he knew they were there as well. A pale face appeared in the gap, peering at him and his partner. “I am telling you, I don’t know any Harnswood. You’ve got the wrong …” she trailed off when Kenneth pushed his hood a bit back, showing his face, and her eyes widened in recognition.

Smiling, Kenneth whispered: “Hello, Miss Jerenson. We’ve got a few questions about Keith Yennington.”

*****

Having grown up in a family with a tradition of creative and cruel punishments, and views that ranged from despicable to abhorrent, Sirius Black had learned at a young age to keep his true feelings hidden. Or had tried to, at least. He had gotten better too. So he had kept smiling when his godson informed him that his friends would be joining them for training, instead of frowning. Merlin, Harry was too nice for his own good! Bringing the new kids up to speed would slow down his own training. Hermione should have seen that, and said something to the boy.

It couldn’t be helped though - even Remus thought it was the right thing to do. At least he could work off some of his frustration during training.

“Alright, kids. Me and Moony here will train you up so you can defend yourself better. Word of warning: We’ll not be nice, we will not be gentle, and we will not be fair. Just like Death Eaters. Also, this isn’t Defense Against The Dark Arts, or Auror training. We won’t bother with stunning and capturing enemies. It’ll be hard enough to teach you how to fight to survive, capturing the enemy won’t be a topic.” He looked at the kids lined up in front of him.

Harry and Hermione nodded slightly. They had, unfortunately, practical experience with that. Ron hadn’t killed anyone, yet, as far as Sirius knew at least, apart from the basilisk and the troll, but he wouldn’t shy away from it either. The rest… Neville looked grim. Sirius had known his parents, and he knew what Bellatrx and the Lestranges had done to them. The young wizard wanted revenge, but did he know what that would cost him? Probably not, but he didn’t look like he cared. Ron’s little sister looked feisty, but Sirius could not tell, yet, if it was just a facade, or the real thing. She seemed to stick with Neville though, and so was unlikely to quit as long as he didn’t give up. Luna smiled at him. Sirius didn’t want to know if she thought this was just a joke, didn’t understand what she had signed up for, or even found the whole thing amusing. The Arabian witch, Aicha, met his eyes with a serious expression. He’d give her the benefit of the doubt. Patil though… she was shifting around a bit. If anyone quit, then it’d be her, Sirius thought. She didn’t say anything though.

“Good. Now, we’ll start with dodge training.”

The trio groaned, and the rest of their friends looked alarmed. Luna perked up though. Ah, she’d learn this was no game!

“Line up on this side of the room, so we can start.”

Remus wand twitched slightly, activating the traps set in advance. They had to start the kids’ first lesson with a bang, after all. Lest the kids get cocky.

*****

“You could have warned us about Sirius and Professor Lupin!”

Ginny was complaining loudly, but Ron Weasley had years of experience in tuning his sister out. Getting hexed built character, as Sirius was fond to say. And Sirius wasn’t that much more evil than Fred and George were.

No, Ron was more concerned with his girlfriend’s reaction. Padma hadn’t taken the training that well. Too many stinging hexes. He slipped an arm around her waist, but she cringed. Probably sore all over - and not in the good way, as his older brothers would say. He met her eyes, then nodded towards an empty classroom. While the rest of their group walked, or limped, on, towards their dorms, the two of them fell behind, and snuck off.

Ron closed the door, and put both an alarm and a privacy spell on it. Padma sat down - wincing again - on a desk in the first row. She looked exhausted, and desperate. Ron wanted to hug her, but he didn’t want to feel her stiffen and cringe in his arms. Sirius and Remus had overdone it, in his opinion. Their friends were not used to that kind of treatment. Even Luna had lost some of her enthusiasm after the third time she had been stuck in a trap and pelted with stinging hexes.

“You know, they had to float me back to our dorms after my first lesson. I was too exhausted to walk.” It wasn’t entirely true, but when Padma stared at him with surprise evident on her face, he knew it would do. No need to mention he had been years younger as well. “Yes. You’re holding up fine, comparatively.”

“Really?” She looked very vulnerable right then and he noticed she had tears in her eyes.

“Yes.” He put his hand on her shoulder, gently. “Everyone has been suffering the same. Harry, Hermione and me just are a bit more used to it. But we didn’t start out any better.” Hermione had been planning to take revenge on the two older wizards right after the first lesson, of course. But that was his best friend. They really should get together, their teachers seemed in need of another ‘lesson’, Ron thought.

“It was horrible. I thought it would be like Defense class, maybe with more duels and practice. Professor Lupin is usually so gentle… and then they hexed me from all sides! I can barely sit!” Padma exclaimed.

Ron winced at the memories that brought up. He saw some tears run down down his girlfriend’s cheek, and brushed them away. “Yes, they did. It won’t always be like that, but they do focus on dodging and shielding a lot.”

Padma cringed, and he bit his lip. “But it helps a lot. You’ll be practically guaranteed to ace your Defense O.W.L. too.”

“Really?” She perked up.

Of course, that would motivate a Ravenclaw! Never mind that Death Eaters were out there, killing people. Ron buried the unkind thoughts. The witch was exhausted, and in pain. Then he remembered. “Oh… curse me, I almost forgot!” He dug into an enchanted pocket of his robe, and pulled out a small bottle. “That’ll help with the bruises. Just smear the ointment on every spot that hurts.” He almost offered to help her with that, but controlled himself.

“Thank you,” Padma whispered. Judging by her sudden blush, she was thinking similar thoughts. Or that might just be wishful thinking on his part. He couldn’t ask her, of course, not when she was exhausted and close to crying. “But don’t you need it for yourself too?”

Ron snorted and shook his head. “We’ve got a dozen of those bottles.”

His girlfriend cringed again, and he winced. Sighing, he put both his hands on her shoulders. “It’ll get better, trust me. It hurts, it’s exhausting, but it may save your life one day.” When she nodded, slowly, he added: “And you’ll be able to hex your sister whenever you get into a fight.”

Padma giggled at that, and Ron smiled, then placed a kiss on her forehead, followed by a kiss on her lips. Followed by a longer kiss. And another before he pulled back and helped her to her feet. If they were in their sixth year… but they weren’t.

The Gryffindor still had a big smile on his face when he returned to his dorm.

*****

“Hello, Horace. Please have a seat.” Albus Dumbledore waved at the comfortable armchair he had conjured for the professor. Despite his friendly tone, the Potions Master cringed a bit.

“Thank you, Albus.” Horace smiled, but it wasn’t a genuine smile. He was nervous - and with some cause, in Albus’s opinion.

“How has your house taken the recent news?” Albus asked.

The other wizard took a deep breath before answering. “The reaction to the Dark Lord’s return varies. Some are very afraid, others ... less so.”

Albus nodded. “And some welcomed it, am I right?”

Reluctantly, the Head of House Slytherin nodded. “They do not admit it, but many of my students are not as cunning or subtle as they think they are. Yes, a couple are pleased to see the Dark Lord return. They do not know what this means though.”

Albus didn’t think every student was that naive. “Do you expect trouble from those students?” His voice was mild, but Horace knew him well, he wouldn’t be fooled.

“No. None of them seem to be involved in anything serious. They are just parroting their relatives’ views.” Horace seemed briefly distracted by Fawkes’s attempt to steal a lemon drop.

“Even young Malfoy?” Albus’s expression didn’t change.

“He’s a braggart, but he hasn’t done anything apart from duelling a number of students. I am not sure if he blames the Dark Lord for his father’s death or not.” The Potions Master wasn’t smiling at all now.

“Please find out. As the new Head of the Malfoy Family, and young and inexperienced, he would be a prime choice for a recruiting attempt by Tom.” Albus casually cast a shield over his bowl, then smiled at the phoenix glaring at him.

“And if he is, what will you do?” Horace looked at him, challengingly.

“I will keep the students safe.” Albus didn’t have to explain much to Horace - the man knew him quite well.

“Even if he hasn’t done anything?” His old colleague sounded as if he wanted to add something else, but didn’t dare to.

“I would be a poor Headmaster if I did not deal with threats to my students before they cause victims. I’d rather not follow the example of my predecessor.” Albus stared at him until the other professor looked away.

“You’ve changed.” The corpulent wizard shook his head.

“I have learned from my mistakes. Did you know that Tom murdered a student at Hogwarts while he was but 16 years old?” Albus dropped the shield and grabbed a lemon drop. Fawkes used the opportunity and stole one himself, trilling as he flew back to his perch.

“Myrtle Warren. So it was him.” Horace sighed.

“Yes. And he was proud of it, as I found out when I discovered just what he had created decades ago.” That diary had netted him quite a bit of information, before he had destroyed it. Young Tom had been quite prone to boasting.

“How did you… he didn’t!” Horace stared at him.

“He did. Quite a few of them, I expect.” Albus nodded. Horace understood.

“That’s how he came back! But … more than one?” The Potions Master shook his head. “Merlin, Albus! How can he be beaten?”

Albus made certain to sound far more confident than he actually was when he answered: “I beat Grindelwald without killing him.”

Horace nodded, a bit hesitantly. “Of course. Still… even suicide is a problem under those circumstances.”

“It will not be easy. But neither was Grindelwald.” Of course the Headmaster had been far younger, back then. He hadn’t had his wand, though. “But do not worry about that. Focus on teaching our students, and on making certain that history will not repeat itself.”

“Of course, Albus.” If not for his charmed robes, Horace would be sweating, Albus was certain of that. “I’ll see to it that the more… tempted… students won’t make trouble.”

Albus smiled widely at the professor. “Thank you, Horace. In those trying times, a school should be a safe haven, where children can relax and learn in peace.”

Once the other wizard had left his room, Albus chuckled. He didn’t expect any serious trouble - there hadn’t been any such at Hogwarts during the last war - but it was better to ensure Horace was on the ball. Of course, if he was wrong… if any accident had to happen, it’d probably take place away from Hogwarts. No need to ruin his record for doing his duty.

*****

Keith Yennington knelt before the Dark Lord Voldemort. The man whose mark he wore, burned into his skin, looked at him with an unreadable expression, and Keith had to fight not to show how nervous he was. He was not sure just how receptive the Dark Lord would be to his proposals.

“You have asked for an audience, Keith. You’ve been granted one.” Voldemort sounded slightly bored, but that could be just an act.

He licked his lips before he spoke. “Yes, Master. During my last task for you, I’ve noticed a possible weakness of our forces.”

“Ah, yes. You’ve lost two men, or so Bellatrix told me. Was that related to that ‘weakness’?”

“I would not say so, Master. They fell to a surprise pincer attack. I was talking about communication during battle. While the robes and masks hide our identities from our enemies, they also hide them from ourselves. In the chaos of a battle, this might lead to confusion.”

“I see. I guess it would be too much to expect from my new Death Eaters to blindly trust each other and work together.” The Dark Lord mused.

“Not without more experience, Master. I was thinking of enchanting the masks, to show the wearer who his allies are. Maybe add a secure way to call to each other as well.” Keith explained, maybe a bit more quickly than he usually would.

“An interesting idea. Though you should know that hiding our identities from each other is intended. It will make it harder for traitors and spies to hurt us. I am sure a wizard of your skills will find ways to deal with this ’problem’ without removing this protection.” Voldemort kept smiling, but his eyes bore into Keith’s.

“Of course Master. Code names should suffice, and maybe a symbol on the robes to identify us. So we will know who to warn if we see them in danger.” It wouldn’t work that well - Keith knew not everyone would be able to, or want to, learn code names. Mixing them up regularly would be utterly impractical, so their enemies would start to gather information on individuals, even though they wouldn’t be able to find out their identity.

“You didn’t question the existence of traitors and spies hidden in our rank.”

“No, Master, I did not. I trust your knowledge,” Keith answered, growing more nervous. Spies and traitors was a dangerous subject under the best of circumstances. Doubly so when a Dark Lord was talking about it.

“Admirable. And yet… did you know that Aurors have been asking questions about certain people? People like Gerald Tuckle, Wulfred Brimharst and … Keith Yennington.”

Voldemort grinned cruelly at him while Keith stiffened. If the Ministry knew he was a follower of the Dark Lord… no, they couldn’t know, or they’d have revealed his name. Still, he would have to take this into account when planning his escape.

“I didn’t know, Master.” He should have known… his contacts in Knockturn Alley should have warned him.

“Really? Two men, including yourself, from your group, sought by the Aurors. Quite the predicament, don’t you think?” The Dark Lord smiled at him, and Keith shivered.

“They do not know, they only suspect. Since Wulfred died, I don’t think he was a spy, Master.” Keith thought frantically. He shouldn’t have to point out that if he himself was a spy, the Aurors wouldn’t be looking for him. Unless the Dark Lord assumed he was running a double bluff. But that would risk getting purged just in case…

“I would not be so certain. Accidents do happen.” Voldemort rose from his throne and Keith trembled. “Look into my eyes, Keith.”

The Death Eater didn’t even think of disobeying and raised his head to meet his Master’s eyes.

“Legilimens!”

Keith bit his lip until it bled to avoid crying out when the Dark Lord invaded his mind. After minutes of agony, the mental probe was withdrawn, and Keith collapsed, moaning.

“Find this spy for me, Keith.” Voldemort sat down on his throne again.

The Dark Mark on Keith’s arm suddenly seemed to burn, and Keith hissed in the sudden pain, writhing on the floor.

“I don’t begrudge you your plans to flee - any smart mercenary would prepare like you did. It’s in the nature of such people. But you are no longer a mercenary. And you should have realised by now that no matter how far you flee, no matter where you go, you cannot hide from me, nor escape from my wrath. Go now, and find me the spy who revealed your name.”

“Yes, Master!”

Keith didn’t know how he managed to stand up, bow, and stagger out of the room. Once the door closed behind him, he sank down on his knees. His arm still felt like it was burning, and he gripped it tightly in a futile effort to make it stop hurting. He had suffered because of a filthy spy. Keith would make sure that traitor would suffer ten times as much as he had just now!

*****

Harry Potter had readied his wand as soon as he had spotted Greengrass and Davis walking towards him in the Great Hall. While it was unlikely Voldemort had any agents at Hogwarts, the young wizard would be a fool not to be prepared. Sirius and Remus had drilled that into him. Next to him, Hermione had her wand out as well, ready to hex the two Slytherin witches, and Ron was shifting a bit to the side so he could cover their backs better, in case the two were a distraction.

“Good evening, Mister Potter.” Greengrass beamed at him, as if they were best friends. Harry tensed and stood up.

“Good evening, Miss Greengrass, Miss Davis.” He nodded at the blonde and the brunette. “How can I help you?” His tone was just barely polite, and all but stated that he would like them to leave - Greengrass had insulted Hermione a bit too often in the past. The blonde didn’t seem to notice, but Davis smirked.

Instead, Greengrass beamed at him. “I am glad you asked!” she exclaimed. Davis’s smirk grew more pronounced, and Harry had the feeling he had just made a mistake when the blonde continued. “As you know, You-Know-Who has returned. He has started his attacks on wizards and witches again, like in the last war!” Greengrass dramatically paused and took a deep breath that did interesting things to her ample chest. “It’s terrifying everyone!” Another deep breath. Harry forced himself to look at her face before Hermione noticed. “Our teachers are working hard, but they have to deal with hundreds of students. With you having won the Triwizard Tournament, as a Fourth Year even, and despite sabotage attempts even, and with your retainer having made such a good showing in the competitions, and with you having survived an armed assault on your life in Romania…”

“Bulgaria” Davis corrected her friend.

“Yes, Bulgaria. Err…” she blinked for a moment, looking confused, then smiled again. “What I want to say is that I would like to ask you to teach me how to defend myself. And Tracey too. Please! We need your help!”

Harry stared at her. He was certain that his friends were staring too. The young wizard wished he had cast a privacy spell - their whole table was listening in. He could almost feel Hermione’s eyes on him. He knew she’d hate this, but to send them away would be far too rude. They hadn’t insulted him, after all.

Smiling weakly, he answered: “I understand your predicament, but I think we should discuss the matter in private. Shall we meet this evening, say at eight, in the movie room?”

Greengrass beamed at him again, and nodded happily. “Thank you! We’ll be there!” Both witches bowed and returned to their table.

Harry sat back down and sighed. He was about to address Hermione, to discuss how best to handle this, when he noticed she, and his friends, were watching their table. When Lavender and Parvati stood up and started to walk towards him, Harry knew he had a bigger problem than he had thought.

*****


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: Lessons**

After careful consideration, Hermione Granger had come to the conclusion that Britain, and especially Hogwarts, could have done with more rather than less panic. Her life, and Harry’s, would have been far less complicated if a number of families had been fleeing Britain in response to the attack on the Ayers, and had taken their daughters currently studying at Hogwarts with them. The Greengrass, Davis, Brown and Patil families, to be precise. Their daughters had started this problem she and Harry had to deal with now.

“How many does that make?” Harry asked, staring at Su Li’s back as the Ravenclaw returned to her seat in the Great Hall to continue her dinner.

“About a dozen who asked you for training. I assume they’ll bring friends with them, for moral support as much as out of interest.” The young muggleborn witch frowned - she was rather certain that all of them wanted a different kind of personal, special training from Harry than the self-defense they asked for. “A number of boys will attend as well, out of curiosity, or to console those poor witches who find their hopes of ensnaring the Boy-Who-Lived dashed.” And they’d better find such hopes dashed, if Harry knew what was good for him!

“I wish we could simply tell them to go away!” Harry said, not for the first time.

Hermione checked if their privacy spell was still holding. It was. Then she frowned at him.

Her boyfriend sighed. “I know, I know. I’d completely ruin my reputation if I were to refuse a peer asking in good faith for help against my own enemies. All our hard work and suffering would have been for naught.” There was the slightest hint of doubt there. “Even if we might have been a bit too successful in building up the reputation of the Boy-Who-Lived, at least in the eyes of the female students.”

Hermione privately thought that as long as those witches didn’t succeed, she would be fine with them pining for Harry while she had his love. “Well, you’d not completely ruin your reputation. But in the current situation, it would not help the fight against Voldemort. Too easy to paint you as cowardly and selfish, no matter how wrong and stupid that would look to anyone with a minimum of intelligence.” She sighed and patted his thigh under the table. “I do not like it either. But we have to keep the bigger picture in mind. And, as much as I hate to admit it, it does take considerable courage to ask you for special training when Voldemort’s return has been confirmed.” Considerable courage, considerable stupidity, or considerable lust. Or the desire to spy on or sabotage them.

Harry took her hand, still under the table. One of those days, when she had the time, and didn’t have to research the Dark Mark and detection spells, she really should create a spell that allowed them to hide holding hands. Maybe kissing too. Maybe even… she blushed slightly as she stopped that particular train of thought. She really shouldn’t listen when Sirius started to tell tales of his adventures at Hogwarts. Especially not those involving his sixth year, James’s invisibility cloak - Harry’s now - and an adventurous witch from Ravenclaw. Besides, the cloak wouldn’t be able to cover them while they were doing that, and Sirius was a bit taller than Harry, so it was most certainly a made-up tale anyway.

“I’ll have to look into magical contracts and curses.” She sighed. More delays.

“Didn’t we learn that there was no such thing as a ‘magical contract’, just variants of curses with a condition?” Harry asked, a bit too innocently.

She would have glared at him if they hadn’t been in the Great Hall, and under the scrutiny of a dozen hopeful but delusional witches. “You know what I mean. ‘Let’s make a magical contract’ is more socially acceptable than ‘let me put a curse on you that won’t take effect until a condition is met’. And it doesn’t tell the dim-witted ones that a good curse-breaker will usually be able to remove it.” She was quite sure that a number of wizards had fallen victim to such schemes in the past.

“Are you that worried about spies?” Harry asked, growing serious.

“Spies. Saboteurs. Assassins. A lot can happen in defense training,” Hermione answered. There was a reason Remus - Professor Lupin - was keeping a very close eye on things, wand ready, whenever Harry was sparring during class.

Her boyfriend nodded. “What about compulsion charms? Anyone could be turned into an unwitting tool for Voldemort.” Not to mention the Imperius.

“A properly crafted curse would reveal those as well,” the young witch stated. “And if the effect is subtle enough, they wouldn’t even notice it.”

Harry smirked. “Why do I think that you’re not planning to tell anyone of our new training partners about that curse?”

Hermione smirked back. “Technically, if the effect is not harmful, it’s not considered a curse. Legally at least. I’ll hand out schedules and notes to everyone, charmed to be updated automatically.” That would mask her curse, and would also serve to test her latest variant of the Protean Charm.

“Or a badge, or maybe a tag. Not everyone carries a schedule and notes to every lesson.” Harry proposed.

Hermione nodded, a bit grudgingly. It would work better - the gossip twins certainly were unlikely to focus on actual defense training when there were attractive wizards to impress. “They should though, it would help their grades.”

“How long will you need to craft the curse?”

“A few days at least. A lot of what I studied for tracking charms and detection spells will apply.” And her shielded calculator would take care of the equations. Testing though would still take time - magic wasn’t an exact science, even if parts of it came close. Any new spell, or newly discovered spell, if Fay was right, was a good deal of guesswork, until the formulas were worked out.

“I’ll call Sirius after dinner then, to inform him and get his opinion, then we’ll hold the meeting, with the first lesson scheduled no sooner than next week?” Harry flicked his wand and a floating cup dipped, covering his meat with just the right amount of sauce.

Hermione nodded. She remembered drowning her plate in sauce in her first week. She had been terribly embarrassed, to the amusement of the other students, who knew that true muggleborns didn’t learn how to eat properly at a magical table until they reached Hogwarts. Only Harry hadn’t laughed, or so she remembered it.

The young muggleborn witch wondered, briefly, if that memory would be proven wrong should she check it in the Headmaster’s pensieve. Were such memories subjective, and therefore untrustworthy, or objective? Given that one could walk around in them, and see things like the back of a chair the one who donated the memory had never caught a glimpse of, it was not out of the question that those were more akin to magical recordings than actual memories. If only she had more time to research this! “You can ask me for anything, but not time!” she muttered.

Harry didn’t comment. Not anymore. He squeezed her thigh again though, and smiled encouragingly.

Hermione smiled back. So many witches wanted him, and he was hers. Hers alone.

*****

Sirius Black waited until the door had closed behind Harry, then turned to Remus, in whose quarters at Hogwarts he had met the two students. The wide smile he had worn when he had listened to the young wizard explaining his latest predicament had vanished already.

His old friend raised an eyebrow at him. “I’d have thought you’d be proud for Harry to have such success with the witches. Do you worry that much about spies?”

Sirius shook his head, both at the question, and at his friend’s expectations. “No. Between the Headmaster, and that curse Hermione is planning, that should be under control.” He sighed. “I’m worried about Hermione.”

The werewolf frowned. “What’s wrong with her?”

Sirius was aware that Remus wasn’t as close to the young couple as he himself was. His friend didn’t know. “Remember Lily in our 6th year?” He couldn’t help smiling. The Dementors had dulled his memories of happier times, but thanks to Padfoot, he had managed to preserve them, to a point.

Remus grinned. “I doubt anyone in our year could forget ‘Flower Power’.”

“Hermione isn’t Lily,” Sirius explained. “They’re both true muggleborns, they’re both the brightest witches of their generation, and they’re both in love with the Head of the Potter family. But that’s where the similarities end.”

“Both have a temper too,” the DADA professor added. “As you found out often enough.”

“Ok, that too. But they were raised in different times. And Lily didn’t fall in love with James until halfway into their sixth year, after he had pretty much chased her skirt for years.” Sirius had had to listen to his best friends’ laments about his unrequited love very often during those years. The Dementors hadn’t touched those memories much.

Remus looked confused. And he was supposed to be the smart one of their group! Well, Sirius knew Remus never understood witches much. “Lily knew for years that James loved her. He did not inherit her Patron Oath until after they had become a couple already, so she never had to bother with the complications that added.” Much. “And she was the hottest girl in our year.”

“She said she felt like an ‘ugly duckling’ when she came to Hogwarts,” Remus interjected.

“I know that. What exactly does that mean, anyway?” Sirius knew the gist of it, but not where it was from.

“It’s from a muggle fairy tale, as far as I know,” Remus answered. “I don’t know more than that.”

“Ugh.” Sirius shuddered. Fairy tales usually involved the nastiest curses one could think of. The stuff of nightmares. “Anyway. Harry became Hermione’s Patron before they hit puberty. They’ve been tied together by magic and circumstances ever since, and it took them years, even with my help…” Sirius patiently waited until Remus stopped coughing, using the time to silently stick his friend’s soles to the floor, before continuing: “... to admit their feelings were genuine and not a side-effect of their oath.” He sighed again. “Further, while Hermione’s pretty, she’s not the hottest girl of her year. Harry of course disagrees with that, but she knows there are more attractive girls around. Pureblood girls. Who now seem to be making moves on him.”

“None of them can hold a candle to her skill at magic. That girl is a genius!” Remus stated.

“Harry was raised by muggles, Remus. He just acts the pureblood Patron.” And muggles, Sirius knew, only cared about a girl’s looks. Not that looks were unimportant for wizards - another sign Remus didn’t really understand witches.

“He’s been in the Wizarding World for years by now. It’s not an act anymore,” Remus countered.

“Maybe not completely. But the two of them don’t think or feel like they act. And the witches won’t know that.” And they couldn’t tell their classmates either, not without causing a scandal. Like James’s decision to marry Lily in the muggle world. The head of a family, entering into concubinage with a muggleborn witch, without a pureblood heir around? Perish the thought! The views had changed some, since then, but not that much.

“Merlin! You think we’ll have another Broombaker incident?” Remus looked worried now, at last.

“They never found out who cast those curses,” Sirius stated, old reflexes kicking in. But it was telling that afterwards, no witch had bothered James anymore. Even after Broombaker had returned from St. Mungo’s. “I don’t think Hermione will go that far. She knows how much that would cost Harry.”

“I hope you’re right.” His friend shook his head. “So, what do we do?”

“Not much more than we told Harry. You’ll simply have to keep an eye on those training and study sessions. And on Hermione,” Sirius added.

“Great. As if I had time to spare, with the Dark Lord starting his war.” Remus sighed. Sirius knew it wasn’t just the approaching full moon that had him so stressed. “How’re your girlfriends handling that, by the way?”

“Chantal and Eugénie have gone back to France, to ask the d’Aigle family for help.”

Sirius smiled. On one hand, he didn’t want his friends to risk their lives for a country they were not part of, and where they were not even considered purebloods. On the other hand, friends helped friends. And the four Veela were certainly very good friends of his. Maybe more, especially Valérie. He hadn’t been bothered by ‘gold-digging witches’, as Hermione had called them, since he had started going out with his guests.

Remus shook his head. “Don’t drool, mutt!” he chided jokingly.

Sirius was tempted to change and drool as Padfoot, but he didn’t. Too close to the full moon for such a gesture. Instead he took the mature option of sticking his tongue out at his friend. “Laure and Valérie are helping to prepare our home in case we need to shelter people.”

If Remus had caught his slip about his home, he didn’t comment. “Is there anyone you would need to shelter, apart from the Black-Tonks family?” The Blacks had no muggleborn retainers, after all, nor were many relatives left, and Nymphadora’s family already had their permanent guest rooms at Grimmauld Place.

“Dumbledore mentioned that some Patrons might be unwilling, or unable, to offer sufficient protection to their retainers.” Sirius didn’t hide the contempt in his voice. To fail at the most important duty for a head of family… he didn’t agree with much of what his parents had believed in, but there were parts of the Old Ways that one simply didn’t neglect or ignore if one had one shred of honour left.

“There shouldn’t been too many of those. It’s not even been 15 years since the last war ended, after all,” Remus said.

“Too many thought Voldemort was gone for good. It costs gold to keep the strongest wards up. Gold many families spent on other things. And now the warders are overworked, and raising their prices.”

The Blacks had never contracted their protection out. But then, their wards were ancient, and the kind of rituals that had laid their foundations couldn’t be done anymore. Not without risking Azkaban. It was one thing to simply maintain them, as disgusting as that could be at times. It was another to erect such wards from the ground. Everyone knew what kind of sacrifices that took, and the DMLE wouldn’t overlook that.

“So, like in the last war, people will flock to the Old Families,” Remus sighed. “To those that are left.” Many emancipated children would have to crawl back to their parents. The influence and power of those heads would grow.

“And to those who are willing to shelter others, even if it means risking Voldemort’s wrath,” Sirius added. The Dark Lord had destroyed a number of such families, together with their mansions and houses, in the last war. Not everyone was as stubborn and set in the Old Ways as the Longbottoms. Many would want to sit out the war.

“Hopefully, this time they’ll manage to get a working alert system set up.” Remus smiled cynically. “And one that doesn’t simply feed Hit-Wizards into ambushes.”

Sirius scoffed. “Dumbledore has plans to set up secure communications for the Order members. He hopes that will cover the most likely targets.”

“Last time the Death Eaters went for the easy targets. They didn’t want to risk facing Dumbledore, not without the Dark Lord at their side.”

“We can’t protect everyone. We can just try to do our best, and hope it’s enough,” Sirius said.

When it came down to it, he would protect Harry before anyone else. And Hermione, since Harry would protect her before anyone else. And the animagus wouldn’t even have to feel guilty about it, since Harry was crucial for the war against Voldemort.

He still felt guilty and selfish, though.

*****

“I may have underestimated the numbers a bit.”

“Just a bit?” Harry Potter shared a look with his girlfriend until she coughed and looked away. He had expected about 10 to 20 students. There were about double that number, easily. “We’d best move to the Movie Night Room.”

Hermione Granger nodded, more than a bit annoyed - and he knew it wasn’t just because she had to relocate the meeting and adjust her plans. No, it was because witches were a distinct majority among the students gathered outside.

In a way - and he wouldn’t ever admit that to his girlfriend - it was very flattering. To see so many pretty girls who were… impressed … enough in him to brave Voldemort’s ire. To see them all break out in smiles when he stepped in front of them. He didn’t have to fake his own smile. “Hello everyone. We’re a bit more than we expected, so we’ll be moving to the Movie Night Room.” He made some shooing motions, and the girls laughed and started to walk.

It was enough to really boost a wizard’s ego. And yet he knew that they were more interested in his fame and fortune than himself. Most of them, at least. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they have tried to become his friend before? On the other hand, why would they have waited until now? Witches were confusing.

Hermione thought it was all the fault of Greengrass. Her asking Harry had prompted a number of witches who had been planning to wait until the Year of Exploration before approaching Harry to follow her example. At least that was his girlfriend’s theory. He wasn’t certain that she was correct - she was a genius at magic, but like himself, she was not the best expert for the social dynamics of Hogwarts students. They got by, of course, and more - but they hadn’t really touched upon their upcoming sixth year. A rather glaring oversight, he had to admit now.

By then they had arrived at the bigger room, and Harry and Hermione pushed through the crowd, followed by Ron and the rest of their friends, to unlock the door. Hermione was transfiguring the area in front of the screen into a makeshift stage as soon as she had stepped inside. Ron hung back at the door, as if it was a Movie Night, with Neville moving to the other corner, to keep an eye on the students as they sat down. Luna had started to send out floating trays with snacks and drinks before anyone had managed to stop her. Hopefully the house-elves would not have followed her directions to the letter this time - some of her food selections were an acquired taste.

He stepped on stage and addressed the crowd: “Hello everyone. I am glad there’s this much interest in learning how to defend yourself. I’ve spoken with Professor Lupin, and we’ll hold weekly training sessions under his supervision, with a focus on self-defense.” That got the students whispering. “You’ll be learning how to survive an attack, you won’t be learning how to duel, or how to pass a DADA test. It’ll be hard, it’ll be tiring, but it might save your life one day.” He looked at them, trying to make them understand this wouldn’t be an occasion to meet and hit on people. People like himself.

“Will you be instructing us as well?” Lavender Brown spoke up. She didn’t seem to have gotten his message.

“Yes, me and a number of others will serve as instructors,” Harry answered. “We’ll be focusing on the most advanced students.” Hermione had proposed that system, to counter some girls acting dumber than they were to monopolize Harry’s attention. A number of the girls looked crestfallen. Greengrass though was staring at him with an almost hungry look. She wasn’t the only one.

He glanced towards Hermione, standing to the side of the stage. She was smiling, but he knew she was angry, and frustrated. And with good cause. The young wizard wished more than anything that he could simply tell them all, show them all, that he was in love with Hermione, and was not looking for a pureblood wife, nor any lover. And yet he couldn’t. Not without damaging his own standing and ruining his and Hermione’s efforts, and all but directly helping Voldemort’s plans.

So he kept smiling, kept answering questions politely, and even laughed, if a bit forced, at a few of the racier remarks.

He had never hated the social conventions restricting his and Hermione’s lives as much as then and there.

*****

“Reducto!”

Another part of the wall Gilderoy Lockhart was hiding behind exploded in a deadly shower of sharp splinters and dust. His robe’s enchantments - the best his gold could buy - saved his life, again. Best purchase he ever made. And if he died here, it would be one of the last purchases he ever made.

He started crawling on all fours towards the entrance to his cellar, flattening himself to the marble floor when a series of piercing hexes blew through the wall right above him. The blond wizard rolled on his back and sent a few unaimed stunners back through the biggest hole, hoping they’d be mistaken for something more lethal, then summoned the armoire at the back wall towards him. The massive wooden furniture should be good to block another spell or two. He had just reached the trapdoor when the armoire turned into a bear - a polar bear, he noted, adult-sized, male. Just his luck to be attacked by a Death Eater that actually used transfiguration in battle, and not just the usual dark curses!

Gilderoy sent a Banishing Charm at the animal, but unlike that time when Bastian had done it in Cambodia, the massive animal was not thrown into the enemy's ranks, but just pushed a few metres back instead. It still was enough to allow him to open the trapdoor and dive inside before the bear’s claws could rend him.

He wasn’t quick enough to cushion his fall though, and his slide down the steep stairs was painful and teeth-rattling. He reached the basement with a fast growing set of bruises. Above and behind him, the beast tried to follow, but the entrance was too narrow for it to fit in. Wincing at what felt like a cracked rib, the famous author placed his hand on the steel door. “Open, Sesame!”

As the massive door started to slowly open, he turned around and sent a Piercing Curse at the bear. He managed to hit its head, but failed to kill it. Instead he had managed to enrage it further. Bleeding from a ruined eye, the animal - a conjured animal, he reminded himself - redoubled its efforts to reach him, and got stuck. Sighing in relief, he pressed himself through the gap as soon as it was wide enough, hissing when his bruised or cracked ribs hit the metal, and slapped his hand on the door again. “Close, Sesame!”

Once the vault was locked again, he sank to his knees, winded. He was safe, for the moment. The vault was designed to keep some of the nastiest specimens of the Magical World in. It would keep the Death Eaters out, at least for a bit. While he pulled out a healing potion from his enchanted pocket, Gilderoy couldn’t help but thinking how he’d describe the scene in his next book, provided he’d survive this night.

_I was sitting at my desk, going over my notes for my latest book, when my wards alerted me of an attempt to break into my house. I tried to inform the DMLE at once, but the Floo connection didn’t ignite properly. A quick attempt to apparate to safety suffered a similar lack of success. This wasn’t a break-in or robbery, this was an attack on me. And there was only one group who’d use such tactics at the time - the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord must have taken my part in killing Slytherin’s Monster more personally than I had expected!_

_I knew my wards wouldn’t hold for long against the Dark Lord’s worst, and I knew I would not be able to stand up to a pack of those vile criminals by myself, but as I’ve mentioned before, proper preparing and planning can compensate for a lot. A flick of my wand gathered my notes, and I was in the hallway before the wards fell. The assassins gathered around my home had come prepared as well though, and as soon as the wards broke down, so did the front walls of my house. Only my quick thinking and running saved me, as I dove for cover in my kitchen._

He sighed with relief as the potion took effect, and he felt his pain lessen as bruises faded and ribs knitted themselves together. Or were simply rendered numb. He’d have to add some witty quips to the scene, of course. The stuff no one ever said in a battle, but people loved to read. Then the whole room shook, slightly, as the door rang from the impact of… something. Spell? Magical battering ram? It didn’t matter, he didn’t have much time.

Gilderoy got up, wincing when his side flared with pain again. The potion couldn’t work wonders, after all. Taking a few deep and careful breaths, he walked over to the cabinet in the corner. It was made from dark wood and beautifully decorated with gold inlays, looking even better after his repair spells than when he had found it in a curioso shop in Constantinople’s Magic Quarter. The writing on it declared to everyone able to read the language that it was a Vanishing Cabinet. He could only hope there would be a wizard among the Death Eaters invading his home who knew Turkish, or his ruse would fail.

The author opened and closed the door of the cabinet, then walked towards a seven feet tall metal contraption, roughly shaped like a human. It was hollow, and its insides were lined with gleaming spikes - a muggle torture device called an ‘iron maiden’. He had bought that one from a muggle entertainer, back when he had been toying with the idea of writing a book about those muggle ‘stage magicians’. His publisher had persuaded him to drop the project - apparently no one was interested in muggles trying to ape magic. Maybe they’d be, if that device saved his life. It had served to impress a few lady friends, at least.

He stepped inside, aimed his wand at the door, closed his eyes and summoned the spiked door, slamming it closed. He didn’t open his eyes or started to breathe again until the slight vertigo from the rotating platform he was standing on was gone. Muggles were crazy, trusting a mechanism to to retract the spikes when the door was closed, instead of magic!

The secret room Gilderoy was in was formed by a second wall that partitioned off part of the vault. It too shook when the Death Eaters’ spells struck the door again. Dust came loose and fell down from the ceiling, but his hairstyling charms and his robe’s enchantments repelled it, leaving him untouched. Quality work. Anyone who mocked such charms as frivolous had never walked through a forest rife with Atlantean Ticks! Barely bigger than a grain of sand, in bigger numbers their venomous touch could render grown men delirious to the point of not noticing how they bled out from a thousand pinpricks. If he had a box of those handy, those assassins would not know what hit or bit them!

_There I was, hidden by a flimsy muggle wall, hoping they’d break through the vault door without causing such damage to the vault itself to expose my hiding place. Hoping that they’d recognize the vanishing cabinet, and assume I had fled through it. Hoping they’d ignore the apparent muggle torture device as beneath them, and leave without setting Fiendfyre to the vault. I had been in more dangerous situations, but not that many, and never alone. At least this time I had no children with me to protect, and should my plan fail, it would only be my life that would be forfeited._

Gilderoy’s mental writing - ‘Dancing with Death Eaters’ seemed like a good title - was interrupted by the sound of the vault door cracking and splitting, followed by shouted curses. If a Confringo hit the weak wall… or the iron maiden… but none did. He could barely make out the voices of the attackers as they entered.

“Where is he? Invisible?” he heard a wizard with a raspy voice ask.

“There are no disillusionment spells or cloaks within the room.” That sounded like quite the professional, cool and quick thinking. Probably the one using transfiguration.

“Perhaps in here… Merlin, look at that!” The raspy voice ended in a gasp.

“What in the name of Slytherin is this? And why would Lockhart have it?” A witch. Young too.

“It’s an iron maiden. Muggles used them to kill witches.” The professional.

“I’ll ask again, why does Lockhart have such a device?” The witch sounded very surprised. Maybe she was a fan? Coming along to kill him pretty much meant her fan club membership would be revoked though. Once he found out her name.

“Stop standing around, you fools, find him! There may be a secret door!” Raspy was the leader?

Gilderoy held his breath. If they searched the vault for a hidden door… There were at least six of them. And the enchantments on their robes would be barely taxed so far.

“Hey! That’s a Vanishing Cabinet! That’s how he escaped!” Another voice. Eager, young, easily excited.

“Are you certain?” The witch again.

“Yes. That’s Turkish, I can read it.” Probably a Ravenclaw then.

“Curse it! The Dark Lord will be very angry if we let him escape.” Raspy sounded nervous. Discovering too late that working for the Dark Lord was not an easy way to make a living?

“There’ll be an ambush waiting for us on the other side.” The calm one spoke up. He didn’t sound nervous.

“Merlin’s sodden loincloth!” “What’s that?”

The unmistakable roar of an enraged Greater Tasmanian Devil drowned out whatever the Death Eaters were saying, until the screaming began. Gilderoy froze. How could such a beast appear in his vault? No one had ever managed to capture such a monster alive, although there had been plans… Jenny! He was almost at the secret door when he stopped. None of his spells would affect that beast. He was an author, not a Dumbledore! Jenny would be safe… had to be safe.

The screaming ended, and the roaring stopped, followed by the sickening cracks of bones getting crunched and flesh ripped. Gilderoy shuddered - he was one of the few who had seen such a monster feed and lived to tell, and write, the tale. He just had to wait. Soon, the monster would be sated, and then…

The feeding noises stopped. The devil would be cocooning soon, for his hibernation. That would take it about 20 minutes. 20 minutes of waiting until it was safe. If anyone came and disturbed it in the meantime…

After the longest 20 minutes of his life, and two more just to be really safe, Gilderoy stepped on the platform again, and pulled the lever that would move him around to the inside of the iron maiden.

He still trembled when he opened the door, just a gap, until he spotted the hardened shell of the devil’s cocoon, next to a half-formed wall rising from the stone floor - quick thinking of the transfiguring Death Eater, but not quick enough. Sighing in relief, he opened the door all the way - and found himself staring at the tip of a wand.

“Hello mate,” a perky voice he knew intimately drawled.

“Hello Jenny.” The wand dropped and he relaxed.

“What happened here? I arrived to find your front wall knocked down, your furniture smashed, and a bunch of Dark Wizards gathered in your vault.”

Jenny prodded the remains of a ribcage with her boot. Her skimpy robes which she maintained were a gift from an aboriginal Australian shaman looked tattered, but Gilderoy knew they were among the best protected clothes he had ever seen. They had to be, given Jenny’s profession and attitude towards danger.

“Apparently, the Dark Lord is holding a grudge for my part in killing his basilisk.” The author tried to sound as flippantly as his friend, but the experience had shaken him up a bit, and being surrounded by chunks of flesh and pools of blood didn’t help his composure.

“Oh. Do you think he knows I’m wearing part of it as my boots?” Jenny asked. Securing some basilisk leather had cost him a number of favors in the Ministry, but it had been well worth it.

“I don’t think so. But he’ll be mad at you for feeding his Death Eaters to a devil. How did you manage that anyway?” Greater Tasmanian Devils were supposed to be as resistant to magic as dragons! If another of his books had lied to him, he’d have to apologize to Lovegood!

“Well… do remember that ‘crazy girl claiming to be best friends with an Australian shaman even though everyone knows they kill outsiders on sight’?” Jenny smirked.

The only one ever to make that claim he knew was… “No!” He stared at his friend.

“Yes! He taught me some of the spells they used to banish the devils to Tasmania, thousands of years ago.” Jenny grinned widely, pearly white teeth flashing in her tanned face, and ran a hand through her sun-bleached blonde hair. “Someone owes me quite a lot.”

“I should never drink and bet.” At least Lovegood would love his next article.

“So… why were you hiding inside that…. thing… instead of escaping through the vanishing cabinet?” Jenny sidestepped a growing pool of blood and pointed at the piece of enchanted furniture.

“Because it’s exactly what it is called: A vanishing cabinet.” The wizard selling it had sworn it had been used by one witch in the Sultan’s harem to get rid of a rival, 100 years ago.

“Oh. I guess we don’t have to worry about anyone having escaped then.” Jenny shuddered a bit. She was unfazed by the worst magical beasts - or at least managed to give that impression - but cursed objects were another thing.

“No. But the Dark Lord will hear of this soon enough.“ The Daily Prophet would announce it, for one. Sometimes, fame had its drawbacks. Not too often though.

“We could go on another expedition. Or do you think he’ll try to track us in the jungle?” Jenny pursed her lips.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Last I heard, he is been hiring mercenaries.” Gilderoy didn’t have to explain that quite a few of Jenny’s ‘colleagues’ would track her as readily as they’d track a magical beast, as long as their price was met.

“I could visit my ‘imaginary friend’, as you called him once, but you wouldn’t be welcome.” His friend smirked when he winced. He hoped he hadn’t unknowingly insulted that mysterious shaman. But it had sounded just like the kind of tale Jenny loved to tell to naive tourists.

“I’ll ask Dumbledore if he needs another teacher at Hogwarts. I didn’t do too badly at teaching.” He could tutor the students, especially the younger ones. Maybe do some research in the library. Public relations. Anything to live behind the best wards in the country.

“Think Hagrid needs an assistant?” Jenny looked at him and he spotted her tongue quickly wetting her lips. She was nervous.

He pointed at the shell in the middle of his basement. “If he hears about that, he’ll do anything for a chance to study it. How can we move it out of here, by the way?” Without waking the beast, of course.

“Err…” Jenny suddenly found the iron maiden very interesting.

Great. One of the most dangerous creatures known to wizardkind was occupying his basement for the next six months or so. Well, it wasn’t as if he had planned to stay in his house.

*****

“Of course Hogwarts can use such as fine wizard such as yourself, and a witch as famous as your friend, Gilderoy! I will have the elves arrange quarters for you two, just call when you’re ready to move in!”

Albus Dumbledore was smiling widely when he stood up from his floo, despite the pain kneeling there for minutes had caused in his old knees. Just when he needed more help training his students in defense, the former DADA professor asked for a position! If he was religious, he’d be certain the gods were favoring his cause.

Granted, Gilderoy was no Remus, but he had done well enough in his year at Hogwarts, and his help would allow Remus to focus on the more advanced students. Especially those who might soon be hired as Hit-Wizards by the Ministry. And Miss Jenny’s assistance would allow Rubeus to spend more time dealing with more dangerous magical creatures Voldemort might try to use for his own ends as well as keeping in touch with the giants Voldemort was courting and the centaurs near Hogwarts. As long as the half-giant didn’t manage to bring that devil to Hogwarts, things would be fine.

If only everything would be going as well as this! In the two days since the attack on the Ayers, two more muggleborn families had been hit. Only one of them had managed to survive, thanks to an overwhelming response by their Patron, Elvira Macmillan, her family and all the other retainers they could muster. Britain would need that kind of Hufflepuff loyalty to win this war, as much or even more than it needed Gryffindor courage, Ravenclaw knowledge, and Slytherin cunning.

But most of all Britain’s wizards needed trust. Trust in each other, trust in the Ministry, trust in themselves. And Albus feared they were lacking that trust so direly needed. How could he help them develop that trust if he couldn’t even get his own brother to speak to him outside of an emergency?

He shook his head at the thought of the sins of his past dooming his country. He needed to have trust as well. Trust in his friends, Trust in others fighting the good fight. Trust in Harry and his friends, the Weasleys, and all the other fine young wizards and witches willing to stand up to the Dark Lord.

His fireplace flared up. “Albus? I am coming through.”

A flick of his wand unlocked his floo. “Come in, Amelia.”

The head of the DMLE stepped out of the Floo, neither ashes nor soot staining her robes. “Good morning, Albus.”

“Good morning, Amelia. I trust you have heard about the attack on Gilderoy?”

“Yes. Quite unsettling, to find an XXXX-class creature no one’s ever seen outside Tasmania used in such an attack. We might have to prepare our forces to face similar creatures.” Amelia looked grim.

Albus smiled, his slight embarrassment not showing. Apparently, Gilderoy had neglected to mention to the Aurors just who had brought that creature to the fight. “I do not think those particular creatures will be a problem. I am quite certain the Aurors will not encounter any other Greater Tasmanian Devil.”

Amelia’s eyes widened briefly in surprise, then narrowed. “Didn’t we already have a discussion about your teacher’s habit of importing dangerous exotic creatures?”

“I can assure you, Amelia, Rubeus had nothing to do with that beast, but the situation is under control.” He spread his hands, and slowly nodded towards her.

Amelia rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Merlin, Albus! There’s a reason the use of dragons in warfare was banned centuries ago!”

“With good cause. Though last I checked, Tasmanian devils were not on the banned creature list,” he added in his usual mild voice.

“That’s because no one thought it was possible to move them off of that cursed island!” Amelia glared at him. “But, Hecate help me, Albus! If Hagrid starts breeding this one with anything, even a bunny - or especially a bunny, after what happened last time - I’ll swear I’ll bury him in Azkaban! Do we understand each other?”  
  
“I have already spoken to him, Amelia. The matter has been handled.”

Rubeus had been disappointed, but his friend had understood. Maybe those spiders Miss Jenny had mentioned she had gathered would distract him from the cocooned devil. As muggle animals, they wouldn’t be a problem.

“Good.” Amelia leaned back in her seat.

“Will you be staying for the talk to the 7th years?” Albus asked, grabbing a lemon drop and banishing another over to Fawkes, who snapped it up before it hit the ground.

“I might as well. As much as we need wands, I’d rather make sure the kids know the score. Some of our recruiters are a bit… creative. We can’t use deserters, or cowards. One wizard not doing his duty can doom an entire team.“ Amelia briefly closed her eyes, probably remembering her brother.

“Sensible. Not everyone is cut out for combat.” Albus knew they needed Hit-Wizards. He also knew a lot of them would die in the near future. As they had in the last war.

“Mad-Eye would say those who are not cut out for combat will be cut down.” Amelia snorted.

Albus gently chuckled. Alastor would never change. “It is true, provided they end up in combat. A fate most will strive to avoid.” Fortunately, Gilderoy would help with teaching his less belligerent students how to avoid battles. For a wizard with rather mediocre grades in Defense against the Dark Arts, Gilderoy certainly had seen and survived an impressive number of lethal situations, a talent he had demonstrated last night again.

“So, what’s the latest on the Dark Lord?” Amelia stared at him again.

He didn’t even contemplate to evade her query. Trust had to be earned. “My contacts have not found out anything concrete yet. We know he is trying to terrify the population, but that’s obvious.”

“At least we achieved two successes last night. Two groups of Death Eaters gone.” Amelia smiled ferally.

“Marked ones?” If the corpses were still around… the information that could be gained from a Dark Mark could be invaluable.

Amelia shook her head. “No. Masks and robes, but we found no marks on the bodies.”

“They could have been imperiused then,” Albus said.

Amelia scoffed. “The lot didn’t look like upstanding citizens who the Dark Lord had kidnapped. No, they were the dregs of Knockturn Alley, and foreign mercenaries. No big loss, but their deaths will boost morale.”

Even such wizards and witches could have been victims of Tom. But Amelia didn’t sound as if she cared much about the truth, not if dead Death Eaters would serve Britain better than dead suspected victims of the imperius. Arguing the point would not serve anyone but Tom though, so he changed the topic. “I must confess I am curious about the reception your recruitment offer will garner among the different houses.”

“Wondering if Gryffindors will outnumber Hufflepuffs in the rank of our future recruits?” The head of the DMLE smirked. “If you want more members of your old house in the DMLE, you might not want to recruit the best of them for your Order.”

Albus simply smiled in response. Even if most in power knew about the Order of the Phoenix, it still was technically secret - and illegal.

“I am worried about the Slytherins though.” She held her hand up when Albus wanted to interrupt her. “I know, I know. It’s not the house, it’s the individual. Prejudice is bad, and so on.” She snorted. “I also know there are Death Eater sympathizers in every house. But we both know that the majority of the Death Eaters are former Slytherins.”

Albus frowned, but didn’t contradict her.

“So… I need a list of suspects.” Amelia smiled at Albus. “Don’t worry. I’ll not arrest them on your say so. I just want to stay a step ahead of possible spies.”

“I see.” The Headmaster slowly nodded and summoned a roll of parchment from his desk, then duplicated it with a flick of his wrist. “Those are students who have shown some bigoted opinions in the past.”

“I’ll give them enough ingredients to blow themselves up.” Amelia smiled grimly.

For a moment, Albus pitied the wizards and witches whose names he had just handed to Amelia. Then he told himself that those who did not support the Dark Lord wouldn’t have anything to fear from possible entrapment. And those who fell for such traps… well, Britain would be better off without them.

It was underhanded, but that was how the game was played. They were at war, after all.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick hadn’t liked patrolling Knockturn Alley, ever. There the dashing red Auror robes that tended to impress the young witches in Diagon Alley attracted hostile glares instead - or curses if an Auror was careless, or just unlucky. But he had, in the past, felt a certain attraction to the place, off duty. At least to the relatively safe parts with the more daring entertainment even an Auror-trainee could afford.

Now though, working sort-of undercover there, with his partner, Bertha Limmington, what allure the place had once held had vanished quickly. Even or especially the witches - it was hard to appreciate a dancer’s performance or flirt with a waitress if you knew just how they lived, and why they were working in such a place, and not in a classier, safer club. He still managed to keep up the act, of course - he had a mission after all. And breaking cover would place himself and Bertha at great risk.

Kenneth leaned at the bar in the third dive they were visiting this night. To think he had amused himself with imagining Bertha going undercover as a dancer! They were posing as mercenaries, recently returned from North Africa and looking for work at home, now that many would be looking for more wands. Successful mercenaries, at that, with enough gold earned to be able to sound the place out before accepting a job. It wasn’t a real undercover operation, of course. Nothing organized by the department. Just some muggle disguises and a shared backstory so they’d not be recognized as Aurors.

So far they hadn’t been approached by anyone else but the local pimps and gang leaders, eager or even desperate to shore up protection for their spots, lest someone decide that, with the Aurors occupied battling Voldemort, it was time to settle some accounts with their competitors. The two Aurors weren’t here for that sort of crime though. Kenneth still took notice.

At least this dive was a bit higher-class than the others. And the witches and wizards working here seemed to be better at acting as if they liked it too. Movement at the entrance caught his attention, and his eyes widened. That was some very beautiful witch who had just entered! She was moving gracefully too, and her robes, while cheap, complimented her figure perfectly.

He was already working on a nice line to greet her with when his brain reengaged, helped along by an elbow to his side from Bertha. What would such a beauty do in this dive? Why wasn’t she working in one of the respectable clubs? Whatever was the reason for her presence here, it couldn’t be good.

The unknown witch looked the guests over, then spotted Kenneth, and her smile widened. While she was sauntering over towards him and his partner, Kenneth smiled in return. That was no broken witch making ends meet. She was a mystery. A challenge.

He ignored the glare from his partner. Things just got interesting.

*****

Keith Yennington didn’t pay attention to the witch thrashing on the floor behind him while one of his men held her under the Torture Curse. A Silencing Charm kept the distraction to a minimum while he looked around the rather drab flat they had broken into. It was clean and in good repair, of course - only the worst wizards and witches, those too dumb to learn the easiest household charms or too slovenly to care, would live in dirty holes like the muggles.

After about five seconds, he stopped the man. “That’s enough.”

He left the Silencing Charm on the witch until it looked as if she had stopped screaming, then ended it as well. She was whimpering and crying, but that wasn’t a problem. A quick spell levitated her until he could look into her eyes without having to crouch.

“I hear some odd people have been asking questions in the alley. Questions about me,” he said casually, as if talking about the weather. The Dark Lord was at his most terrifying when he spoke so casually, as Keith had discovered. He himself was no Dark Lord, but Miss Jerenson was just a whore and not a hardened mercenary. Her whimpering pleas for mercy proved that.

“Believe me... I did nothing…” she managed to stammer between sobs.

Perhaps the witch was a bit stronger than he expected. He glanced at Hortensius.

“Crucio!”

The girl screamed far longer than the second his man had kept the spell up. Keith smiled. When she had broken down into heaving sobs, he spoke again. “Don’t lie to me! Your neighbours talked.”

It didn’t take her long to spill what she knew, and what she had done. Keith nodded at Hortensius as he turned away.

“Diffindo!”

Behind him Hortensius sliced the girl’s throat open. He was a good man, he did what was needed, and didn’t waste time dragging it out.

Two Aurors. Nosy ones too. He didn’t know them, and their description would be worthless given the disguises available, but they were looking for him, and didn’t know he knew that. He could use that.

Nodding to himself, he put up his hood and left the flat. Two Aurors, vanishing in Knockturn Alley. They might even provide valuable information to the Dark Lord if he caught one or both alive.

*****


	26. Entanglements

**Chapter 26: Entanglements**

Life sometimes was like one of those Lockhart novels, Kenneth Fenbrick thought. Here he was, undercover in Knockturn Alley, with a witch far too pretty for the area on his arm. If she wasn’t a spy, he’d eat his Auror badge!

“So, you’re looking for an old acquaintance of yours?” He asked with the kind of sleazy smile a mercenary named ‘Basil’ would have.

“Yes, a wand for ‘ire I met in Paris. A few weeks ago ‘e told me ‘e was ‘eading back to Britain, since the demand for ‘is kind of work was rising here,” the witch who called herself ‘Cherise’ answered. Her accent was spot on as far as Kenneth could tell, though he was - sadly - no expert on French courtesans. Not even an enthusiastic amateur. After this war he would have to rectify that.

He was sitting in a booth in the ‘Drunk Dragon’, one of the better bars there, with Cherise and his partner, Bertha Limmington, currently going by ‘Jolie’. Bertha didn’t seem to be enjoying the evening as much as he was, but then, she was a very ‘by the book’ kind of Auror, and this spy affair was anything but by the book.

“Ah. Indeed, the kind of work we do has been in demand for some time now, especially with the return of You-Know-Who,” he boasted.

Kenneth noticed the slight shudder of the witch at the name. That pretty much meant she was British; the Dark Lord hadn’t made many waves in France, where Grindelwald was still considered the most feared Dark Lord. Well, British born or British raised. Or raised by British exiles who fled to France in the 70s. Or the 60s. Alright, she didn’t have to be British. Though she was a spy. Bertha couldn’t stand her, and his partner had good instincts. Or good insight. He ordered another round of drinks for everyone.

“Oh, yes. The Dark Lord.” Another shudder that did interesting things to her chest. “‘is fame ‘as even reached Paris. But isn’t it dangerous to get involved in that conflict? They say he stormed Azkablam all by ‘imself.”

“It’s ‘Azkaban’,” Bertha corrected the witch in the clipped tone she only used when she really wanted to but couldn’t bag a dark wizard. Or witch, in this case.

“Ah… who said we want to fight him? I’ve heard he pays well, and taking on the British Aurors, and Hit-Wizards too? He’ll need experienced wands. Me and Jolie here will be able to name our price!” Kenneth bragged, and pulled the spy closer to him. Meanwhile Bertha kept an eye on the rest of the room.

“Oh! But ‘is recruiters cannot be easy to find, they will ‘ave to ‘ide from the Aurors.” The spy’s dumb witch routine was good.

“I don’t worry about that. We’re so good, they’ll find us!” Kenneth ran a hand up and down the side of the witch, causing her to giggle while he tried to find out where she was hiding her wand. A quick summoning spell at the right time made an arrest go so much more smoothly.

The woman took this as an invitation to feel him up, or tried to slip him something - but his robes were enchanted to guard against that. Sadly, not as well as his Auror robes, but good enough.

Just when he was trying to find out if the witch hid her wand in her hair - some used theirs as a hairpin, though that usually took a rather small wand, or a lot of hair - Bertha interrupted him. “Two suspicious groups have entered, and are moving to flank us.”

Kenneth glanced at the bar. Three men were there, hoods hiding their faces. More telling, the bartender and the other guests were giving them space. Lots of space. Four more similarly clad figures were near the stage, blocking the door to backstage and the floo.

A flick of his wrist shot his wand into his hand, and he pointed it at the witch’s face. “Tell your friends to back off, and you get to keep your face!”

That was when he noticed that the witch had summoned her wand to her hand, and was pointing it at his groin.

*****

“Tell your friends to back off, and you get to keep your ‘wand’!” Mathilda Miller told the mercenary she had been plying for information for the last hour. She didn’t know what had given her away - she’d done her ‘British working girl posing as a French courtesan to charge more’ act for weeks now, and no one had been suspicious - but she’d not let the Dark Lord get his hands on her.

Then she realised what the man had said. The jealous witch with him - probably too shy to make a move herself but not wanting anyone else to get close - had her wand pointed at Mathilda’s head, but was looking at the thugs. No, not thugs. Their movements were too well coordinated. Merlin’s rotting balls! Experienced mercenaries, and she had no hostage, but another target in her hand!

When the wands appeared in the mercenaries’ hands, Mathilda pushed away from the idiot pointing his wand at her and kicked up the table, then banished it towards the three wizards at the bar. It absorbed their hastily cast spells before it smashed against one of them. The former courtesan hoped the sound of something breaking came from bones, not wood. The other two had managed to dodge though, and were casting again. Mathilda flipped over the booth and took cover, right before a pair of yellow curses hit the spot where she’d been sitting. Other spells were stopped by the shields of the two mercs in the booth.

An explosion shook the room, and ‘Jolie’ landed next to her, no worse for the wear. Screams from the stage indicated that the four others had been hit, or at least some of them. ‘Basil’ joined them, his cheap robes already showing tears. “No killing curses yet - they want to take whoever they want alive!”

Mathilda smiled grimly. She’d not let Death Eaters take her alive. Not that there was a need for such desperate measures yet.

“On two!” ‘Jolie’ whispered, and two seconds later, both mercenaries rose to cast, then dropped into cover again. Or would have, if Mathilda hadn’t transfigured the booth into a hippopotamus and sent it charging at the bar. Now she just had to… her disillusion spell failed! They were really competent! She barely got a shield up in time to soak two stunning spells.

The female mercenary got hit by some curse, and went down - screaming, so she was not dead, and waving her wand. It looked like a normal Bone-Crushing Curse, not some of the more exotic, and darker curses. Nothing Mathilda could do about that.

Her partner took offense though, and his wand spat out a series of Blasting Curses that turned most of what was left of the stage into splinters which savaged the remaining two attackers there. Another was buried under Mathilda’s transfigured animal before the spell was finited, which meant the remaining wizard would be trying to flee right about… now!

Her sticking spell hit his boots, and while he was flailing and falling, Mathilda transfigured two chairs into constrictors. His robe might repel spells, but most such robes had trouble with more physical attacks. Judging by the screams, soon cut off, his robes shared that weakness.

The attackers hadn’t been as good as she had feared at first - they had bungled it at seven to three odds. But there would be more waiting outside, probably still watching the other guests fleeing. They’d not know yet if the fight was over inside, and who’d have won. Mathilda sent a Reductor Curse at the leftmost window, blowing it up and out. Let them think the battle was still going on. The front door would be watched. The backdoor... probably not - they had tried to block it, after all. Still… never be predictable, as Madame Dubois had taught her. She had meant in a relationship, but it fit battles too.

Mathilda pulled her shrunk broom out of her robe and enlarged it. Before she could mount it though, ‘Basil’ pointed his wand at her again. “In the name of the Ministry, you’re under arrest!”

“What?” Madame Dubois would have had her hide for losing her composure like that, but she couldn’t help gaping. An Auror, here?

*****

Keith Yennington swore he’d kill those idiots who bungled the job when the front windows blew up. Seven against two, how could you fail at those odds?! He felt a sudden rage, and had to remind himself that he had to wait with punishing those fools until the job was done. He had men watching the back and the front, just in case there was trouble, or some reinforcements arrived. Maybe he shouldn’t have sent the most expendable wands inside, just in case it was a trap.

He couldn’t see any signs of combat inside anymore. No flashing lights, no explosions. Maybe his men had succeeded, even if they had had more trouble than expected? Just then all the remaining windows blew open, showering the streets with shards of glass, followed by thick, billowing smoke. He knew at once his men had lost.

“They’re making a break for it! Get rid of the smoke!” He yelled, and started to do so himself. Before he had made much headway - where did they get all that smoke from? - the street started to blow up from a series of Blasting Curses. Fortunately they were badly aimed and his shield protected him, but the explosions threw up more dust and smoke, and he realised that the Aurors would escape before that was cleared up.

And with that much of a ruckus, the other Aurors would arrive soon. He had to retreat. And he’d have to explain this debacle to the Dark Lord. And that would be much easier if he had a better story to tell than a bungled ambush. Maybe it had been a trap, and it hadn’t been seven against two? That made sense. Or would make sense, if he presented it. And wasn’t that why he had sent his most expendable men in?

Smiling behind his mask, he turned to Hortensius. “Fiendfyre it, then get out.”

His most dependable wand didn’t ask about the group of their own wands who might still be alive inside, he simply cast, followed by Keith himself. That would teach the denizens of Knockturn Alley to shelter Aurors!

*****

“Where in the name of Morgaine is your backup?” the spy screamed at Kenneth while they flew through the smoke rising from the house on a very overloaded broom. He didn’t answer her - he was straining already to keep the levitation spell on Bertha and the spy so the broom could carry all three at a decent speed. His partner’s leg had been crushed, the flesh shredded from within by fragments from the bones, but she had managed to petrify it, stopping the internal bleeding, but all but immobilizing herself in the process. But the witch was still casting with the precision and ruthless efficiency he knew so well, creating more smoke to hide their flight, even while she held on to him. Just a bit further, and they’d be out of the Anti-Portkey Jinx’s range…

“You’ve got the broom!” the spy suddenly shouted, then jumped off.

Kenneth acted without thinking, grabbing the falling witch’s robes instead of the broom. Bertha was still clutching him with one hand, and he had barely a moment to realise his mistake when the portkey went off and all three of them including the broom went spinning around madly.

Portkeying with a broom between the legs wasn’t something Kenneth would recommend to anyone but his worst enemies. Fortunately, he hadn’t skimped on the groin protection, or witches all over Britain would lament this day. Unfortunately, his legs hadn’t been as protected, and Bertha’s petrified leg had smacked into his several times as well, leaving him in pain and covered with bruises.

Despite the rough ride, and the less than graceful landing, he had managed to keep a grip on the spy’s robe, who was far sturdier than its flimsy, near-transparent look indicated. He had even landed on top of her, which had allowed him to straddle her and point his wand at her throat before she could escape again. If anyone asked, it had gone exactly as planned.

Breathing heavily from the fight and flight, he grinned. “Got you now!”

The witch glared at him, but he had the drop on her. Behind him, Bertha groaned - she hadn’t landed as gracefully, but she was alive. Just as he was patting the spy down to get any other wand she might have hidden, the Floo connection activated. Cursing, he started to turn.

He couldn’t see who had arrived, much less point his wand at them, before he was violently flung at the wall to his right and stuck there, disarmed. A second later, Bertha joined him, and once again, her petrified leg struck his unprotected one. He grunted in pain, then froze, staring at his assailant.

He and Bertha had just been taken out by one wizard before either of them had been able to react. Granted, they had been surprised, and hadn’t been wearing their Auror robes, but such a feat still took an extraordinary wizard, not some … washed out pervert.

For a moment he couldn’t believe that it was Aberforth Dumbledore, the Goat Wizard, and not the Headmaster himself who had vanquished them. He was supposed to be the black sheep of the Dumbledore family, the disappointment next to his famous brother! He didn’t look like a disappointment right then. Kenneth shivered under the harsh, hateful glare aimed at him.

“They claim to be Aurors, Abe!” the spy yelled, and the man lowered his wand, slightly.

“Why would Aurors attack you?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the two Aurors.

“I think it was a misunderstanding,” the witch answered while her robes rearranged themselves. Kenneth couldn’t help staring when the torn scraps that barely covered the witch changed back to the revealing, but still decent robes she had worn at the start of the evening. Lockhart had been right - courtesans had some kinky enchantments on their clothes.

“Misunderstanding?” The harsh voice, promising pain and violence, brought his attention back to his current predicament.

“Yes. I think their cover was broken, and the Dark Lord sent some of his men after them, catching me in the crossfire.” The witch stepped closer to Kenneth, smiling tauntingly and teasingly at him, and took her wand back from his pocket, despite the enchantments on it to prevent exactly that.

“They look familiar.” The old wizard narrowed his eyes.

“We’ve questioned you about the kidnapping in Hogsmeade,” Bertha stated. Kenneth’s normally unflappable partner sounded nervous as well - understandable, given the situation.

Aberforth waved his wand, and Kenneth tensed, holding his breath, until the man stated: “It’s not a spell.”

“It’s not polyjuice either - I kept an eye out while I drank with them for more than an hour.” The other witch added. “I didn’t see their backup. For an undercover operation, this was quite sloppy.”

“Hey! We were not undercover, just disguised!” Kenneth protested.

“Technically, it was a plainclothes patrol,” Bertha clarified.

The spy chuckled, which earned her a glare from the female Auror. With a glance at Aberforth, she said: “Since they were in disguise I don’t think we need to obliviate them. Unless they plan to make a habit out of such trips.” Then she turned towards the two again. “What were you doing there, anyway?”

“We were hunting a Death Eater suspect,” Bertha answered. Not that that would reveal anything.

Aberforth shook his head. “I should simply obliviate them, and then leave.”

Kenneth tensed up again. Maybe Aberforth was the black sheep of the Dumbledore family - a dark wizard, hiding under the very nose of his brother, posing as a dishonoured innkeeper.

The spy shook her head. “No, I’ve got a better idea.” She smiled at the two Aurors. “It’s been getting a bit dangerous to operate in Knockturn Alley without backup. Abe’s been on my case for some time to stop.”

“No,” Bertha said in a flat voice, just as Kenneth asked: “What do you mean? And would you mind letting us down from the wall?”

Judging by the glares Bertha sent towards him while the spy explained her plan, her leg was bothering her more than she let on.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort, polyjuiced into the form of Finnegan Greenbrand, smiled when he spotted the witch he had been looking for sitting at a bar among other wands for hire in Knockturn Alley. Lucrecia Browtuckle, her robes cut to reveal her numerous scars, had spotted him as soon as he had entered, and he could see her slightly tense up as she downed the rest of her drink while he walked towards her.

“Miss Browtuckle.” He nodded at her.

“Mister Greenbrand.” She barely moved her head, her eyes meeting his. There was a change in her behaviour, compared to the last time they had met. He smiled. Perhaps she knew who he was. If so, she showed remarkable composure.

“The situation in Britain is no longer a brawl between children.” He ordered a fire whiskey for himself. “It’s a war now.”

“Nominally at most. I haven’t been impressed much by what I’ve read and who I’ve seen. Grindelwald’s wizards would have eaten them alive without breaking a sweat.” The old witch glanced over at a loudly bragging wand for hire who was trying to impress the waitress with made-up tales of bravery and daring.

Voldemort smirked. “Those are the dregs and the inexperienced. The skilled ones have already been hired. Most of them.”

“Is that an offer?” She wasn’t calling him ‘lad’ this time. She knew, or suspected.

“Yes. A very generous one. You are among the most experienced and skilled wands in Britain. And one of the few not already committed.” He raised his glass to her.

“The wise mercenary doesn’t get involved in conflicts where the outcome is not yet clear,” Lucrezia said.

“Waiting for the best offer? It can be dangerous, if you wait too long. One or the other side might decide that preventing you from joining their enemy would be safer than hoping to convince you to join them.” Voldemort smiled pleasantly, despite his threat.

“You haven’t made an actual offer yet.” The witch shifted a bit. He recognized the way she got ready to move.

He pulled out a piece of parchment, put it on the smooth bartop and slid it towards her. She didn’t touch it, just looked at it and raised an eyebrow. “Quite generous indeed. I will have to consider this offer carefully.”

“What’s there to consider? The payment’s far higher than anything the Ministry could offer.” He knew that well. “Other parties lack the means to pay you even half that. Not without crippling their other efforts.”

“I might decide to leave Britain until this war has run its course.” Lucrecia smiled, but her eyes were cold.

“If you were going to do that, you’d have already left. You’re one of the most experienced mercenaries; you know the rates, you know the score. If you are still here, in this bar, it means you’ve been waiting for this offer. Or it means you’re already working for someone else.”

He silently sealed the room. He had already blocked apparition, portkey and floo travel before he had entered. She might simply be holding out for more money. Many mercenaries would do that. But he didn’t think so. For all her experience, she hadn’t fought in the kind of wars he had been waging, and would be waging again. Not on his side, at least.

She was fast, and skilled. As good as her reputation. Her first spell was cast silently, not at him, but at the floor, blasting the stone there into shards as sharp as knives, all directed towards him. They met his silently cast shield spell while he pushed away from the bar, diving to the side before the transfigured claws sprouting from the bartop reached him.

The low-lives in the bar had just started to notice the battle at that point. Voldemort hadn’t touched the ground yet before he had conjured a dozen sharp blades dripping with poison and banished them at the witch. She twisted out of the way and one of them took off the top of the head of the bartender while he was still opening his mouth to shout something. Voldemort pushed himself off the ground, evaded a series of Piercing Curses and turned the air around the bar into poison gas. A waitress started choking, and dying, but Browtuckle was unaffected - it had to be her robes, he didn’t see a bubblehead charm in effect.

The smarter wizards and witches were trying to flee now, but the room was sealed. The Greenbrand identity was too valuable still to leave witnesses. Lucrecia had jumped behind the bar, taking cover from his own salvo of Bludgeoning Curses. But that gave him enough time to cover the six mercenaries at the door in acid. Half of them screamed and flailed around, the others turned towards him, protected by their robes. Not for long, though.

“Sectumsempra!” His shouted curse went straight through the shields and robes of two of them, cutting them in half. The third one stared in horror, and Voldemort would have killed him with his next spell, if he hadn’t to defend against Browtuckle’s next attack - whirling ice blades, intermixed with fireballs, and behind them, a salvo of Cutting Curses.

The Dark Lord raised a slab of stone in front of him, catching the first ranks of the blades, giving him time enough to wrest control of the other blades from the witch - he had fought against Ottoman wizards more than enough to be familiar with those kinds of spells. The Cutting Curses destroyed his makeshift barrier, and the fireballs destroyed the ice blades before he could use them. But her attack had been stopped.

A flick of his wrist flung a waitress who had been cowering behind an upturned table at his enemy. She didn’t dodge the screaming witch, and so his Piercing Curses missed her. His living projectile shattered Browtuckle’s shield though, giving him an opening. The nimble witch dodged again then, and his fire spell only hit the waitress, who turned into a short-lived torch.

Browtuckle dropped all restraint then, and filled the room with explosions and splinters. Voldemort’s shield held though - it was a tactic more appropriate for taking out large numbers of average wizards and witches, not a wizard as powerful as the Dark Lord. So, why would she…

His respect for his foe went up a notch when he spotted the black carpet made out of crawling bugs move towards him, hidden behind the dust and debris caused by the explosions. Egyptian magic as well! It was a shame he had to kill the witch. A wave of water brushed the cursed beetles aside, then roasted them when he poured lightning into it. Browtuckle herself was forced to climb the bartop, or share the fate of her conjured bugs.

He had been counting on that, and as exposed as she was, she couldn’t dodge or shield all of the necromantic orbs he shot at her. Even so less than he expected hit her, and while her skin was starting to rot off, she was not out of the fight yet. “Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!”

He dodged the first Killing Curse, then blocked the next with a conjured marble slab. He could see that she wasn’t used to casting that spell - she was barely faster with it than his average Death Eater. Her robe stopped his next two curses despite its tattered condition, he would have to find out who enchanted it, but the third one got through and turned her knees into pulp, and she fell down on the rubble-covered ground

She was staring at him with hatred, her face half-rotted off, but still trying to cast when he put her out of her misery with a Killing Curse of his own. Looking around, he took a deep breath, savoring the moment. It felt good, fighting like this. Even if she hadn’t touched him at all, it had been a good, challenging battle. He saluted the body with his wand, then unleashed Fiendfyre on the room before apparating away.

*****

“Many of you will fondly remember Gilderoy Lockhart, the famous author, who taught Defense against the Dark Arts three years ago at Hogwarts. He and his friend, Miss Jenny, have agreed to assist Professor Lupin and Professor Hagrid, allowing them to focus on more advanced students.”

Hermione Granger clapped at hearing the Headmaster’s announcement, if a tad less enthusiastically than her fellow students. She liked to have Professor Lockhart back. He was charming, good looking, but most importantly, his presence would allow Remus - Professor Lupin - to spend more time training Harry, herself and their friends. And his presence would hopefully distract a number of those witches after Harry. She was less enthralled by the presence of the author’s friend. Not because the woman was a very attractive witch wearing very little clothing, but because the witch was about as enthusiastic about dangerous magical animals as Hagrid, but hadn’t the decades of teaching and other experience their professor had. Unless Lockhart had exaggerated a lot in his books, she might both underestimate the dangers of an animal and overestimate the skills of the students.

Next to her, Luna was clapping madly though, and Hermione realised with a sinking feeling that ‘Jungle Jenny’ was the blonde Ravenclaw’s idol. She exchanged a look with Aicha, who looked about as enthusiastic as herself.

“We need to reevaluate our protective enchantments,” she whispered to Harry.

Her boyfriend and Patron looked confused, but his eyes widened, when he caught her looking at Hagrid, then at Jenny, and then at Luna. “Merlin! I didn’t think of that!”

“What were you thinking of then?” Hermione asked. Probably the same most boys had been thinking of, she thought.

“I was wondering why those two decided to become assistant teachers, in the middle of the school year. That sounds a bit strange,” Harry explained.

“You’re right. Why would they do that? There was no opening, and both are very successful in their fields, especially if Jenny gets the same cut we got from Lockhart, so they don’t need the gold either.” Hermione bit her lower lip.

“We also haven’t heard about any plans that would involve Remus cutting back on his lessons,” Harry added.

Hermione nodded. There had been talk about contacting the werewolves before Voldemort got his hooks into them - anymore than he probably had already - but Sirius had persuaded Remus that someone else, someone less well-known as Dumbledore’s man, should undertake that mission. “Well, something’s afoot then. Hopefully not something that needs two more specialists for dangerous magical creatures next to Hagrid.”

Harry agreed, but looked like he thought that was the most likely explanation for the presence of the two. “We can ask Hagrid. He can’t keep a secret, and he’d know if it was something like that.”

“Before dinner then,” Hermione said, “I have the curse and the course material almost completed, I should finish those in the evening after dinner.”

*****

As planned, Harry Potter and his friends made their way towards Hagrid's hut after their last lessons of the day. The teacher, unlike the other professors at Hogwarts, had chosen to live outside the castle, in his own house - the old Groundskeeper Cottage, to be exact. He claimed that he prefered to be closer to the Forbidden Forest, and to the animals and other denizens making it their home. The hut didn’t look like much from the outside, but the inside was vastly expanded, and the walls were magically strengthened. Several times, as the rumour went, after a particularly ‘interesting’ specimen of his had broken through once.

Harry hadn’t visited Hagrid too often, despite a standing invitation for tea. Luna though could consider the professor's hut her home away from home - the half-giant was a close friend of the Lovegoods, and a regular contributor to their magazine. So the group of friends was following the blonde Ravenclaw as she made good speed towards the cottage.

Not everyone was similarly enthusiastic. Hermione was looking forward to find out more about their newest professors, and would welcome any information the teacher let slip about magical animals. Aicha as Luna’s best friend was a regular herself, but seemed a bit more reserved about the occasion than the blonde witch. Even a bit uneasy, now that Harry took a closer look. Ron seemed more concerned with scanning the environment for dangers than the visit itself, an attitude Harry tended to share. With good reason, he thought. Voldemort’s forces were out there, somewhere. The rest of their friends had declined to come along - Padma was already studying for their O.W.L.s, Neville was doing extra-credit work for Professor Sprout, and Ginny was helping the green-thumbed Gryffindor.

Luna didn’t bother knocking, she simply tapped the door with her wand and opened it - a clear sign she was considered a very close friend, if not family by the resident. The young witch entered with a loud “Rubeus! We’re here!”, which prompted a loud “Luna!”.

Hagrid was swinging the squealing girl around when the rest of them arrived, with Aicha’s genie fluttering around both. “Come inside, come inside! And close the door - the little spiders don’t like the cold!” He waved at the expanded entrance hall, with several doors leading to his proper quarters or his workspace.

“Spiders?” Ron’s eyes widened, and his wand shot into his hand as they entered.

The teacher didn’t seem to notice his reaction. “Yeah! Jenny brought me some from Australia. Muggle spiders, but very interesting. Come on, I’ll show you in th’ other room!”

“I’ll stay here I think,” Ron answered.

“Alright. We’re missing one, so if you see it, call. Careful when stunning them, they’re fragile little things, even when enlarged a bit.” Hagrid smiled, and walked towards the door to his workspace.

Harry had noticed that Hermione had paled some. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows, and she whispered: “Australian spiders are among the deadliest in the world. Muggle ones, that is.”

Luna and Aicha either didn’t know that little tidbit, or didn’t care. For a brief moment Harry pondered staying with Ron, but he wouldn’t let Hermione enter Hagrid’s workspace without him.

Hagrid let them in what looked like a room-sized terrarium, and pointed at a big glass case in the middle, filled with dozens of spiders, in their own compartments. Next to it a tall, tanned blonde woman in a robe that would have passed as a leather bikini stood, levitating one of the spiders up - ‘Jungle Jenny’.

“Look at the li’l beauties!” Hagrid stated, and with a flick of his wand enlarged the tiny spider until it was as big as his hand. “It’s a Redback Spider! See that red stripe on th’ back? That gives ‘im th’ name. Deadliest venom of all muggle spiders, he has!”

“Oh!” Luna bent forward, giggling when the floating spider flailed with its legs at her and bared its now not quite so tiny fangs. “Beautiful!”

Harry exchanged a look with Hermione and Aicha. None of them looked like they wanted to get any closer to that monster. And Aicha’s genie was now hiding behind the girl’s head.

“Great spider! But t’is even better, if a bit aggressive.” Hagrid pointed his wand at another arachnid, floating it out of the case. “It’s a Sidney Funnel-web Spider. Dunno who Sidney was, but see th’ fangs?”

Another flick, and that spider too grew to the size of the half-giant’s hand. And so did its fangs, which had been the size of snake fangs before. Harry was reminded of his encounter with the basilisk, and shuddered. The beast seemed as aggressive as the basilisk as well, trying frantically to reach anyone of the humans around them while Hagrid mentioned casually that their fangs usually could cut through leather shoes. A terrified squeaking noise told Harry that the genie had understood that.

“I’ll have to create a spider-detecting, and spider-repelling spell,” Harry heard Hermione mutter under her breath.

Luna found that monster cute as well, of course, and happily chatted with both Hagrid and Jenny while they revealed more information Harry could have done without. Like the fact that Redback Spiders used to bite a lot of people in the groin when outhouses were common. Or that the Funnel-web Spider’s venom was particularly lethal to primates. Including humans. Jenny stating that she had a full set of antidotes with her was not as comforting as it should have been, given the circumstances. Maybe Ron was on to something with his ‘curse first, curse later” policy when it came to spiders.

“Will you be showing those in your lessons, Professor?” Hermione asked after the spiders had been re-shrunk and dropped back into the glass case. Behind her, Luna tapped on the glass, causing the spiders to swarm towards her.

“Ah, no, as muggle critters, those are not on th’ curriculum.” Hagrid answered. “But Jenny here will show ’em in her special lesson on Australian fauna. You’d not believe th’ kind of animals they have there. Too bad th’ Greater Tasmanian Devil is still stuck in Professor Lockhart’s basement after th’ attack.”

“It attacked him?” Harry hadn’t much of a clue about that animal, but from the way Hermione got even paler, it had to be very dangerous. He knew Lockhart was an experienced adventurer though.

“No, no. It attacked th’ Death Eaters in his basement. Like a guard dog. But it cocooned up after it ate its fill, and it’ll be sleepin’ for half a year or so.”

Jenny nodded. “It tore through them though. Like a tornado of blood and gore.” Her smile looked far too cheerful for her words.

While Harry, Hermione and even Aicha winced at the mental picture that description caused, Luna piped up “Do you think the reports of Blood Whirlers in Northern America are actually a variant of those devils?”

Hagrid rubbed his beard. “It could be. Though th’ theory that they are a variant of poltergeists has some merit as well.”

“You were attacked by Death Eaters?” Harry asked the Australian witch before the conversation could move into magicryptozoology.

“Gilderoy was, actually. I was just visiting, and happened to give them a devil of a time.” She grinned. “Gilderoy was a bit annoyed at his basement getting occupied by the animal for the next couple months though.”

“Was that when you decided to become teachers at Hogwarts?” Harry tried to sound as innocently and casually as possible.

From her frown, it wasn’t enough. “Yes. With the Dark Lord after us, it seemed a good idea. A pack’s stronger than any individual, as the shamans say.”

Harry nodded. It made sense. “Well, I am glad you two are safe, and joined us here.” He smiled at her, then noticed Hermione frowning slightly. Did she really expect him to lust after the older witch? Well, the assistant teacher was very attractive, and wore very little, but still! Besides, she had had a crush on Lockhart. He blinked. Maybe he shouldn’t push the issue. With all the pureblood girls after him, or so it seemed, his girlfriend had been in a bit of a mood already. Even though ‘Jungle Hermione’ would look great.

They moved from the workspace to the living room, and had tea and Hagrid’s famous rock cakes. Infamous among first years - the older students traditionally let them try the cakes without having learned the charm to soften them yet. Hermione had called it hazing, and had ranted about it. Understandable, for the daughter of dentists - Madam Pomfrey usually had to regrow a tooth or two per class. But treated with the proper spell, incidentally invented by the leader of the first successful diplomatic mission to the giant clans, who had also invented many of the tooth restoring spells in modern use, the cakes were delicious.

While Hagrid explained something to Luna, who was scribbling on her ‘journalist notepad’ now, Harry leaned over to Ron and whispered: “Ron, if you ever see a spider in Hagrid’s Hut outside a cage, or any spider outside his hut, no matter how small, kill it. With extreme prejudice.”

Hermione, sitting next to him, nodded with a grave expression. Ron stared at the two of them, who usually were not as understanding of his attitude towards spiders, swallowed, and slowly nodded before checking the room for spiders again.

There was a reason Harry didn’t visit Hagrid’s hut that often, despite the standing invitation.

*****

Hermione Granger stared at her notebook. She had run the equations through her shielded calculator twice. The curse should work, but she’d have to test it yet. Not the effect itself. A slight discoloration of the hair, a pimple in the middle of the forehead, and an itching scalp were results of common jinxes and hexes. But the trigger condition - ‘Intent to spy, sabotage or hurt’ - was an original creation of hers. And intent-based triggers were tricky. The books on curse-breaking had many examples where ancient curses had mistaken a researcher for a thief, with gruesome results. The young witch didn’t think every one of those victims had been secretly planning to plunder a grave. Apart from those in Gringotts’ employ, of course.

But who to test it on? She’d rather not ask Harry. Curses, even harmless ones, and the Patron Oath didn’t go together that well. It wouldn’t hurt either of them, but it simply felt wrong. Like training sometimes felt wrong when she was facing him. Besides, he was studying.

“Do you know where Ron is?” she asked.

Harry looked up from his book, another treatise on self-defense. Hopefully it wasn’t as useless as the last one. “He was talking to his brothers about a spider repellant.”

“They are responsible for his problem with spiders in the first place.” And they hadn’t ever apologized, as far as Hermione knew. Ron didn’t mind, or claimed not to mind. Siblings could be weird, in her opinion. She’d certainly would have demanded an apology, and reparations.

“Do you think they’ll prank him?” Harry frowned.

“They better not,” Hermione said, huffing. There was a time and place for pranks. And dealing with lethal spiders was not the time or place to prank people. Even Sirius would agree with that.

The door opened, and Ron entered.

“Speak of the devil!” Harry said.

Hermione winced. After hearing that a Greater Tasmanian Devil had taken up residence in Britain, that phrase somehow felt out of place. “Did you get the repellant?”

“I got something they told me would repel spiders. I am not sure if they actually believed me when I told them about the spider threat.” Ron placed a potion on the table. The one with the marble plate, and the reinforced legs.

“Great, one more thing to test,” Hermione muttered. Well, first things first. “Ron, can I test my new curse on you?”

“What does it do?” Ron asked, cautiously.

“This variant colors your hair some. I mainly need to test the trigger.” She picked up a few badges she had prepared already.

“Fine then,” Ron agreed, as she had known he would, and stood up. Behind him, Harry stood up as well, to observe.

Hermione handed their friend a cursed badge. “Put it on please, then cast a Stinging Hex at me.”

Ron had the hex flying at her before she had finished her sentence - he was getting very quick on the draw. Her robe absorbed the hex without trouble, but the curse didn’t trigger. Drat. She bit her lip and pondered the situation while Ron checked his hair color with a conjured mirror.

“Maybe it’s the fact that you knew my robe would stop the hex,” the young witch speculated, and started to shrug off her robe. She wasn’t nude, like other witches she knew were, underneath it, but the camisole and boyshorts she was wearing were a far cry from the pullover and jeans she had worn before she had started to enchant her robes. But she certainly wouldn’t delay the testing for aesthetic reasons.

Ron was coughing a bit, and Harry was staring, slightly. She grinned at her boyfriend. It was a small payback for the attention he had paid to ‘Jungle Jenny’.

“Alright. Hex me agaOW!” Ron was definitely getting faster. But despite the stinging hex hurting her, the curse hadn’t triggered. “Maybe it’s that I wanted you to hex mEEEP!”

She was lifted up and dangling from her right ankle, and something cold and slimy was flowing down her right leg - Ron had used the Mud-Covered Ankle-Noose Spell on her! But she could see that he was now sporting blue hair, her spell had worked! Then her camisole slipped down, covering her eyes and uncovering her chest, and Harry angrily yelled at their best friend.

Ultimately, there was no real harm done. Nothing a Finite, a Scourgify, and a quick summoning of her robe couldn’t fix. Though she might get a bit more creative in the next training session, at least when facing Ron. And Harry might do the same, judging by the scowl still lingering on his face.

The important thing was though that her curse was working. She had already finished the lesson plans, now all she had to do was to enchant a few dozen badges.

Which would take her more than a few hours… drat.

*****

“Ugh! Merlin!

“What the…”

“Who…?”

“Scourgify! Scourgify!”

Ron Weasley smiled at the sounds coming from his brothers’ room - the twins shared one room, unlike everyone else of their year. It looked like their ‘spider repellant’ didn’t work as they had claimed it would. Shaking his head, he handed the invisibility cloak back to Harry. He could have disillusioned himself, but the cloak was both more convenient and more effective - no one so far had spotted him, Harry or Hermione when they had been wearing it. Certainly not his brothers!

Too bad they couldn’t enlarge it. The times when all three of them had been able to fit under it were long since gone. They had all grown up. Maybe a bit too much, or not enough, in places - Harry had looked rather angry at his spell last night, and Hermione… well, she would probably get even one way or the other. Even though he had just done what they had needed. And it had been worth it.

He smirked while following Harry down to the Gryffindor common room, where Hermione would be waiting already. He was a Weasley, after all, and his brothers currently fighting off an invasion of all sorts of bugs - but no spiders - weren’t that different from him. If you could do something right, or do it right and have fun at the same time, then Ron would pick the second option.

Speaking of, or rather thinking of doing what was right, or what was needed… He would have to talk with his best friends about their next school year. The Year of Exploration. Between Sirius and their muggle families, they probably didn’t understand that as well as they should.

Well, not today. It was months until the end of the year still, after all.

Breakfast was interrupted by Dumbledore announcing that a delegation from the Ministry would be in Hogwarts that day, talking to the Seventh Years about their future. ‘Career Day’, Hermione had called it. Ron didn’t think becoming ‘curse fodder’ for the Ministry was much of a career, but then, he had been in a few dangerous situations already, and had been training hard for combat for more than a year. Most of the other students wouldn’t know what was awaiting them. They’d probably see Hit-Wizards as heroes. He knew a lot of the Gryffindors thought so. And Fred and George would be joining the Order of the Phoenix as soon as they graduated, despite mum’s wishes.

Well, there was a reason they were in Gryffindor, and not in Slytherin. He looked over to the Slytherin table. They wouldn’t join the Hit-Wizards, he was certain of that. Some of them would join Voldemort, the rest would hole up in their mansions. Malfoy was scowling at the Daily Prophet - today’s leading article talked about home defense, so Ron didn’t understand what offended the git - but his former girlfriend Pansy Parkinson was looking straight at Ron. The girl even smiled when their eyes met. Ron immediately drew his wand and checked his food and drink for poison, again. A Slytherin like Parkinson, smiling at him? She had to be plotting! But he was on to her.

*****

Gilderoy Lockhart walked through the halls of Hogwarts once more. For the second time as a teacher - as an assistant teacher, to be precise. Though maybe his biography wouldn’t need to be quite that precise. ‘Assistant teacher’ sounded a bit too much like a student helping a professor out. And he hadn’t been a student at Hogwarts for over a decade.

A group of witches crossed his path. They weren’t wearing the standard school robes, but some rather risqué robes, so they were in their sixth or seventh year. He flashed his best smile at them, but didn’t stop to chat. The sighing was bad enough as it is, and he’d rather not deal with more love-struck witches wanting personal tutoring sessions. Even if they were very attractive, and very determined.

He wasn’t a student anymore, he reminded himself. He was a teacher now. Again. And when it came down to it, those witches were still children, testing their boundaries, reaching for things they did not quite understand as well as they thought they did. Even if they didn’t look exactly like children, with the right spells and clothes, and in the dim light of a hallway. Or a tavern.

Merlin’s bollocks! Gilderoy shook his head at his own traitorous thoughts. It wasn’t right. Besides, McGonagall and Dumbledore would have his head, and Jenny…

That thought help him focus on his upcoming tutoring session with the first and second years. At least those children looked their age, and their crushes were adorable and didn’t make you check your drinks for love potions. Hecate be praised that this was not Beauxbatons - the thought of a few love-struck adolescent Veela among his students sent shivers down his spine! One of those days he’d have to ask how the French teachers managed to avoid indiscretions. He still winced when thinking of that book signing in Paris… well, of the day afterwards, when he had woken up to headlines of the Tribune Magique and a visit from the Gendarmérie.

At least with Harry Potter now in his fifth year, going on his sixth, things wouldn’t be as bad as they had been three years ago. The young celebrity should draw some of that unwanted but far too tempting attention away from him.

Hm. Maybe he should focus his first lessons on the Basilisk incident, just to be certain. Mister Potter and Mister Weasley as well as Miss Granger surely wouldn’t mind getting a bit more popular, close to their sixth year!

*****

With Professor Lupin’s support, the first real meeting of the Hogwarts Self-defense Club took place in the Dueling Chamber. Hermione was still a bit disappointed that they hadn’t gone with her own proposal for the name, but maybe the others were right and it had been a bit too complicated. “Hogwarts Extracurricular Self-defense, Magical & Improvised, for New and Experienced” had a certain ring to it, in her opinion at least.

She was sitting at a table near the entrance, with a box for the badges. The young witch had refined the curse a bit - it was now activated by the transfer of the badge; its presence afterwards was no longer required. And it required the intent to do serious harm to Harry to be activated. It still served to identify the students, though.

She just hoped she’d have enough. There were more people coming in than she remembered attending the gathering last week.

“Thank you!” Airhead Greengrass took a badge, put it on, then started to move it around, apparently trying to find the best spot. For a badge. If not for Davis’s soft pushing, the idiot would have held up the whole queue. Hermione raised an eyebrow at the brunette, but Davis just smirked back.

A few more students, Gryffindors all, filed in and took their badges. The young witch quickly counted the remaining badges. Still enough, unless her estimate was really off.

“Good evening, Miss Granger.”

That voice made her look up and stare. What in Merlin’s name was Parkinson doing here?

Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts, or it was a predictable question, since Parkinson explained: “As a witch who has recently broken up with the son of a rather prominent pureblood who died under suspicious circumstances, I fear for my safety and would like to take advantage of your Patron’s generous offer to his fellow students.”

Hermione clenched her jaws together with so much force, she was certain her teeth were cracking under the pressure. She desperately wanted to tell Parkinson to get lost. Maybe hex her for good measure. But she couldn’t.

With an effort, she managed to paste a fake smile on her face instead. “Of course, Miss Parkinson. Please take a badge.”

To her surprise and disappointment, the Slytherin witch didn’t suddenly develop a pimple on her forehead, nor did her hair color change. So, she did not wish to harm or spy on Harry, nor sabotage this club. The young muggleborn witch was certain that the result would have been far different if she had included a wish to harm herself in the trigger condition - but then, since she was a prominent true muggleborn, and retainer of Harry Potter, a great many witches probably wished her harm, if only to have a better shot at her Patron, so it wouldn’t have served its intended purpose.

She took a few deep breaths, then smiled at the next student, who looked a bit nervous when he reached for the box with the badges. He was probably afraid of not measuring up to Harry’s standards, Hermione thought.

*****

Ron Weasley cooly smiled at Parkinson when the witch waved to him. He didn’t know why she was really here - Hermione’s curse had not been triggered, and he didn’t believe she was really afraid of Malfoy, or the Dark Lord - but he’d find out.

“What’s the problem, Miss Parkinson?” he asked, emulating Lupin’s professional tone. If a werewolf could be so polite to people who would consider him a subhuman dark creature if they knew - an expression he had picked up from Hermione - then Ron could be polite to a Slytherin witch.

“Could you show me how to point-cast a Shield Charm again?” She smiled sweetly at him, like an Amazonian Nymph trying to lure prey close to her pond so she could drown them.

“Of course.” He refrained from sarcastically commenting that she should point the wand away from her and cast, as tempting as it was. Hermione certainly wouldn’t work with Parkinson, and if Harry tried to… Ron rather wouldn’t want to be nearby. Hermione was wound up tighter than the chains of a Ridgeback at Charlie’s reserve when the regular visit from a Healer took place. “You need to visualize the wand motions very precisely, in addition to the spell’s effect.”

“Instead of moving the wand, I imagine moving it?” Parkinson sounded a bit sceptical, but not derisive.

“Exactly. It’s a matter of imagination and intent. Words and wand movements make spells easier to cast, but they are not essential components. Our mind rewrites reality when we cast a spell. All you have to do is start that a bit earlier,” Ron explained, then showed the process - not that watching him point his wand and cast was that helpful.

“Oh. That’s a very concise explanation.” The witch smiled at him, flattering him.

“Of course. It’s from Hermione.” Ron didn’t quite smirk when Parkinson’s smile turned rather sour before she recovered. He certainly felt like it though.

He nodded at her and turned to see if any other witch needed help. His friends hadn’t said anything, but everyone understood that it would be best if Harry would teach the wizards and Ron would help the witches, particularly those who seemed to have designs on the Boy-Who-Lived. They could always switch a bit once those who wanted to attend just to be near Harry had quit in frustration.

Spotting Hermione trying to show a Ravenclaw fourth year how to cast a shield spell while the boy was trying to stare down her robe, and catching how Harry was watching the two, Ron realised that his workload might grow a bit before it lessened. He smiled at Padma, who seemed to be a bit frustrated with her own attempts at point casting since she was scowling when she met his eyes.

It wasn’t easy, but it was the fastest way to cast a shield, and a shield was essential for defending yourself. That, and dodging. Ron grinned a bit. He was looking forward to teach the students assembled there how to dodge spells. Marauder style, as Sirius called it. The teaching, of course, not the dodging.

*****


	27. Spies

**Chapter 27: Spies**

“And that’s all for today. Good work, everyone. We’ll continue next week.”

Hermione Granger had to force herself to keep a polite smile on her face as Harry Potter concluded the first lesson of the Hogwarts Self-defense Club. Too many accursed pureblood witches were making eyes at her boyfriend. None of them had changed hair colors, or shown any other signs of her curse, at least. Though knowing that the girls trying to poach Harry didn’t want to harm him was a small consolation for the muggleborn witch in love with her Patron. At least Susan Bones had stopped trying to be overly friendly, but that could be just the result of the much closer scrutiny she was now under, with her aunt being one of the Ministry’s most exposed leaders in the war against Voldemort. It was a miracle the Hufflepuff witch didn’t have permanent Auror guards assigned to her, and according to rumours, Dumbledore had to personally vouch for the girl’s safety to avoid that.

“Oh, Mister Potter! That was very interesting! You’re a great teacher!” Daphne Greengrass beamed at Harry, a wide smile on her too pretty face. Hadn’t the airhead understood that the training session was over, and that she should move out (and on)?

“Indeed. You have improved even more since your already very impressive performance in the Triwizard Tournament,” Davis chimed in. Shouldn’t the brunette steer the blonde into the right direction, namely away, instead of joining her?

Harry smiled politely at the Slytherin witches. “Thank you, Miss Greengrass, Miss Davis. But I am merely giving you all a few hints; I am far from a qualified instructor.”

Hermione busied herself with cleaning up the room, vanishing debris and repairing some of the destroyed furniture and flooring, while she kept an eye and ear on the conversation. She noticed Parkinson was lingering at the door and glaring at the back of the two other Slytherins. For a moment, Hermione was taken aback. Sharing the opinion of the girl who had been too dumb to dump Malfoy for years on anything wasn’t a comfortable position to be in. Then again, Parkinson liked muggle movies too, and there was nothing wrong with that. Ron was at the door, not letting that witch out of his sight. The rest of their friends were discussing the session at the back, near the remaining snacks.

“I am sure you could teach me anything, anywhere!” Greengrass breathed. If her clothes were as bad as her lines, then her robe would split right then, from the strain of trying to keep the chest covered that the girl was all but pushing into Harry. If she wanted to make her intentions even more obvious, she’d have to conjure a bed and strip down.

“That’s very flattering, but I fear my talents do not quite match your expectations,” Harry answered. Hermione noted that his smile wasn’t yet frozen, and still lacked the slightly feral touch it usually had when he was talking to Malfoy, but his eyes were cold. It would be very satisfying to see him send the blonde hussy away with a few choice sentences that revealed her foolishness for everyone to see, like he had done to Malfoy so often in the past. Satisfying, but ultimately counter-productive.

“I think that may be too modest of you, Mister Potter,” Davis added, and her smile didn’t change. Hermione would have loved to cut in, and ask if Davis meant that Greengrass was ‘easy’.

“Modesty is a virtue,” Harry answered. He looked over at Hermione.

The muggleborn witch at once stopped vanishing and repairing piecemeal, and finished the room with two spells while heading over to her boyfriend. “My Patron.” She bowed slightly.

“My Wand.” Harry turned a bit away from the two Slytherins, and nodded to her.

Hermione stepped closer to him. “The room’s been restored to the state it was when we arrived.”

“I think it’s time to return to our dorms then.” Harry turned back to the two other witches, and his warm smile became merely polite again. “If you will excuse me, Miss Greengrass, Miss Davis. The tutoring has left me a bit tired, and I’d rather not risk disappointing your expectations due to exhaustion.”

The two girls smiled, but took the hint and left, with Parkinson just a few steps ahead of them. Hermione followed Harry, silently glaring at his head. Did he have to encourage them by flirting at the end?

*****

Ron Weasley watched the last three Slytherin witches file out. He didn’t know what Parkinson had been planning, but he knew she hadn’t been able to slip anything by him - he had hadn’t left her out of his view. Once the door closed behind them, he allowed himself to relax a bit and headed to Padma and the others, in the back. Hopefully there were some cauldron cakes left.

“I thought they’d never leave!” he exclaimed.

“Really?” Padma asked, with a frown.

“Yes. Parkinson was hanging around the door, probably trying to put a curse on it on the sly. I didn’t let her out of my sight though, until she finally gave up.” Ron smiled at his girlfriend. “What’s wrong, Padma?”

“Nothing,” the Ravenclaw answered, and levitated a cauldron cake towards him. Of course, this meant something was wrong.

“Thanks!” He beamed at her. She knew him well. But perhaps not too well. He took a bite out of the cake, then left it floating next to him while he slipped his arm around her. “I’d rather have been watching you, but you’re not about to hex me as soon as I let you out of my sight.”

Padma smiled, then pouted. “Maybe I should be.” She used her wand to restore her hairstyle to the more complicated and less practical version she had worn before the training, Ron noted.

Ron chuckled. “That’s not what I meant. But Parkinson will give up whatever she’s planning soon enough. As soon as she realises that we’re on to her.”

“That might take a long time given her track record.” Hermione smiled, showing her teeth. “It took her years to dump Malfoy, after all.”

“She might have gotten a bit smarter in that time,” Harry added, following Ron’s example and wrapping an arm around the waist of his girlfriend.

Ron took another bite from the floating cake. “So, what did we learn? Other than that witches have the hots for Harry and Parkinson is planning something?” When he saw Hermione pressing her lips together he wished he hadn’t been quite so flippant. He knew his best female friend was not taking the whole ‘Harry hunting’, as Padma had told him her sister called it, well.

“We now have a decent picture of the ability of our fellow students to defend themselves,” Harry said

“And it’s not a great picture,” Ron commented. “Most of them don’t have the stamina to handle prolonged combat. Even the duellists are not in the shape they should be.”

“We might have a bit too stringent standards though,” Neville added. Ginny, next to him, nodded.

Ron realised his sister lately was found very often next to his friend. He almost sighed. Ginny wasn’t raised by muggles, unlike his best friends, but she might not take Neville starting his 6th year well. Not if Neville stuck to tradition. He’d have to ponder that another day. Right now he had to focus on the session, and their real problems.

“The problem is that the Defense Course is more focused on learning and casting spells and knowing the weaknesses of various enemies and spells, instead of the actual application of that knowledge,” Hermione had slipped into her docent voice. “And duelling is a sport, with rules and limits. The duellists do better than the rest, but I am certain that none of them would fare well if we switched to group tactics.”

“The focus of the club is on evading and escaping,” Harry reminded her. “We’re not exactly producing Hit-Wizards here.” He rubbed Hermione’s back when she sighed.

“Our plans to create an army of battle-wizards to defeat the Dark Lord have been foiled!” Luna exclaimed dramatically. “What will we do now?”

“Well, if we wanted to recruit students, there are a few promising candidates.” Hermione didn’t say what or who they’d be recruiting for.

“How many of them would stick with us after one lessons with our resident torturers?” Padma frowned. Ron pulled her a bit closer - the witch didn’t really like the training with Sirius and Remus.

“More than you’d expect, I think,” Hermione said. “With the Daily Prophet reporting so many incidents, people are scared. And fear is a great motivator.”

Padma tensed up. Ron knew Hermione hadn’t meant to attack his girlfriend - the muggleborn witch was far more direct in such cases - but he also knew Padma was quite jealous of Hermione’s ability to excel academically, and still fare much better in combat training than her. You could only chat about your best friends so often before you noticed how the mood was affected by certain topics. He spoke up to move the discussion on. “Did anyone notice anything suspicious?” That had been one of their greatest concerns, after all.

“Parkinson didn’t stare at Harry, but she was impressed by your last two repair and vanishing spells, Hermione,” Luna finished her soft drink. “I think that’s quite suspicious.”

“Why?” Aicha spoke up, with the wary but curious tone any of the quirky Ravenclaw’s friends was very familiar with.

“If she’s not after Harry, but pays attention to Hermione, then that leads us to the conclusion that she is interested in her, not him. You’ve got a romantic rival, Harry!” the blonde nodded sagely at the Boy-Who-Lived, who seemed amused. Hermione though was staring at Luna with an appalled expression. “But fear not! I shall protect your body with my own, if needed!”

“Thanks, Luna.” Hermione’s tone was dryer than a salt desert.

“It’ll be my pleasure!” Luna beamed at her.

“That’s what I thought,” the muggleborn witch weakly smiled.

“That aside, Parkinson has to have a motive to attend, and I doubt that she’s only wishing to learn how to dodge spells,” Ron tried to get the discussion back on track. “She could learn that from another tutor. Her family probably has some on call anyway, given their reputation.”

“Well, you’ll have to find out, Ron,” Harry nodded at him. “You seem to have the best shot, given how nice she was acting towards you during the session.”

Padma tensed up again, and Ron felt like testing Harry’s reflexes with a few hexes. He knew the other wizard was correct, though. And Ron would do it too, of course. But not eagerly. “Can’t we just kidnap her, dose her with Veritaserum and obliviate her?”

“In the current climate, people are more cautious.” Hermione shook her head. “We could probably pull that off, and probably avoid too much trouble, if we have a good plan and use all our means, but I do not think it’s worth it. This is Parkinson, after all. The girl who thought Malfoy was a good boyfriend for years. Not exactly the brightest and most dangerous witch in school.”

“She was pretty good today,” Ron added. “Better than average, but I see your point.” A glance told him that Padma certainly thought dosing Parkinson was worth the risk.

“Other than Parkinson, did anyone else act suspiciously?” Hermione asked. Ron and the others shook their head. “As long as Ron handles the love-struck witches, we’re good then.”

Ron glanced at Padma, and winced at her expression. He really wished Hermione would understand that not everyone was as used to playing a role in public as the muggleborn witch and her Patron. And that not everyone trusted their love as much as those two did.

*****

“Lucrecia Browtuckle was killed four days ago. Did you know?”

Albus Dumbledore, sitting behind his desk, winced at the tone of his brother, who had just flooed in. Aberforth usually was cold, even hostile, whenever they met, but he was rarely angry. Today he held himself straight as a broomhandle, and as stiff. And his eyes… the last time he had seen that expression had been after the Intervention.

“I didn’t know,” he said. He had suspected, after hearing of a remarkable fight in a tavern so skillfully sealed, a team of Aurors hadn’t managed to break in in time to stop it. There were very few wizards or witches capable of such a feat, and not that many more able to last as long against such a foe. He had suspected, but hoped he was wrong. Lucrecia hadn’t been a friend, but at his age, anyone passing who he had known that long was a heavy blow.

“Killed by the Dark Lord, while trying to spy on the scum in Knockturn Alley.” Aberforth didn’t take a seat. Fawkes trilled, consolingly, but the old wizard didn’t even spare the phoenix a glance. “What a bloody waste!”

Albus took a deep breath, but didn’t say anything. Aberforth was just waiting for an excuse, any excuse, to vent.

“A few days before that, Mathilda Miller was almost killed by Death Eaters.” Aberforth put down both hands on Albus’s desk, staring at his eyes. The Headmaster nodded at his brother.

“One of my friends dead, another escaped thanks to luck. The Dark Lord casually wipes out an entire tavern while the Aurors watch from outside. The Longbottoms lose a whole family of their retainers. Lockhart has to flee to Hogwarts. What the hell are you doing, Albus?!” Aberforth’s chest was heaving and he was grinding his teeth. “Where are the dead Death Eaters? Where are you when people are dying?”

Albus’s years of experience in politics allowed him to keep his expression neutral. “The Dark Lord has lost quite a number of his men and women in those incidents.”

“Don’t give me that line, Albus! He lost a few idiots! Curse fodder! None of them were marked! Where are the dead real Death Eaters?” Aberforth shouted at Albus, and the Headmaster could smell the firewhiskey on his brother’s breath.

“They are using expendable wands for most of the raids. My friends are ready, and doing what they can, but with the risk of the Dark Lord taking part in a raid, they have to be careful, lest they run into an ambush themselves,” he calmly explained.

“Rubbish! If the Dark Lord is around, they simply have to call you to counter him.”

Aberforth shoved the bowl of lemon drops on Albus’s desk away with enough force to make it hit the wall before it tumbled to the ground, spilling the sweets. The Headmaster managed to summon them back before they hit the floor, but not before Fawkes had swallowed a couple, trilling in triumph.

“That is likely exactly what he wants me to do: To commit to one place, so he can devastate another.” Albus didn’t let his own anger and frustration show.

“So don’t play his game! Don’t wait for him, hit his followers!”

“I would - would I know where they are. They are not exactly announcing their presence when they are not wearing their masks.” Albus didn’t add that finding the Death Eaters and their allies was what Aberforth’s ‘friends’ were supposed to be doing. He didn’t have to, his brother knew that very well.

Aberforth glared at him, then, finally, sat down. “Mathilda is working on finding a high-ranked follower. But even with the two bungling Aurors she managed to recruit, that’s very dangerous. My friends can’t provide the kind of backup she and they need. Not with them being scattered around Britain, and even on foreign shores, doing your work.”

Albus raised an eyebrow. His brother might not be as young as he had been during the Grindelwald war, or the Intervention, but he was one of the few wizards Albus wasn’t certain he could beat in a fair fight. If he was asking for more help, did that mean he didn’t think his own presence would be enough?

Aberforth scoffed. “I’m not getting any younger, Albus. And I don’t have your advantage.”

Albus stiffened, but didn’t glance at his wand holster. He suspected Aberforth knew about the Elder Wand, but neither of them had ever spoken of it.

Aberforth waved his hand. “I can still handle anyone but the Dark Lord. But if there are more of them… I might take too long to provide the help a friend might need.”

Albus knew what it cost his brother to ask him for help. He’d never have done it, if not for the death of Lucrecia.

“Not Fletcher. And none of your pet Aurors either. I don’t want any friction with your most respectable friends,” Aberforth added in a mocking tone.

Albus almost frowned. Beggars shouldn’t be choosers. Then again, he needed Aberforth’s help. Well, there was one possibility. No Auror, no Fletcher, and Albus didn’t want to send his less experienced friends out. He smiled. “I know just the wizard to call then.”

Sirius had been getting restless anyway. Even with Harry’s training and four Veela to occupy his mind.

*****

Gilderoy Lockhart hadn’t thought that he could be utterly terrified simply by listening to two friends chat at Hogwarts, but Jenny and Hagrid had just proven him wrong.

“If we cross those two spiders, and then mate the result with dwarf acromantulas…” Jenny was floating two of those australian monsters, enlarged even, around to illustrate her plans.

“It’s not t’ sure that th’ spidermantulas would be smart enough t’ follow instructions.” Hagrid peered at one of the beasts, unimpressed by the spider’s apparent attempt to savage his finger. “And they’d breed. If they’re t’ small, they can breed without anyone th’ wiser. Bit dangerous for the’ other creatures. Probably for muggles too.”

“Can you even cross non-magical spiders?” Gilderoy didn’t recall any such feat done, but then, no one might have cared about it.

“Ne’er tried. Hadn’t found any interesting muggle critter so far.” Hagrid shrugged. “Didn’t ever visit Australia, ‘f course.”

“I could get some magical spiders from Australia, if muggle spiders don’t work. Outback Doublelegs, probably.” Jenny turned the redback spider around. “Would go nicely with that body type.”

“Aren’t those the spiders that can split their shadow off, and then travel through it?”

“Yes, very fascinating critters, Gil!” Jenny beamed at him. “They hunt in packs, and can bring down Giant Kangas easily. Imagine a pack of them hunting Death Eaters!”

“And how would they recognize Death Eaters?” Gilderoy’s current smile wouldn’t even have made the top 100 of Witch Weekly.

“We’d banish them at the Death Eaters. Or fill a trap box with them. They would work as area denial too,” Jenny explained enthusiastically.

“And how do you keep them from attacking other people after they have run out of Death Eaters?” The author winced at the idea.

“Good point. We need a smarter monster then.” Jenny frowned.

“Trainable, yes!” Hagrid smiled. “But then…. war’s not a good place for animals anyway. T’ dangerous.”

Gilderoy would have mentioned that that was kind of the point, but he didn’t want to make Hagrid reconsider weaponizing such monsters. At least they were seeing reason.

“I guess we’ll have to settle for conjured spiders. Those cannot breed, and they vanish when the spell ends.” Jenny pouted. “We’ll just have to learn the best spiders to conjure.”

“Maybe we can cross those muggle spiders, and then learn to conjure th’ result?” Hagrid had a big grin on his face. “Th’ critters would be safe, but we could still use’em in th’ war.”

Gilderoy shivered at what mental image those words conjured.

*****

Keith Yennington shuddered, rubbing his arms. It didn’t help. He hadn’t expected it to help, not when the warming charm on his robes didn’t do anything against the unnatural cold. He couldn’t simply do nothing while he froze though. His ragged breath was fogging, and the dead grass around him was covered with frost.

But the worst wasn’t the cold. It was the memories. Remembering his worst failures, his worst regrets… he struggled with the anger, pain and shame filling him. And the closer he got to the abandoned mansion that the Dark Lord’s most terrible allies, the Dementors, were gathered in, the worse it got.

He didn’t want to go in. He wanted to turn around, flee, escape. But there was no choice. This was his punishment for failing the Dark Lord. Trembling, he reached the door, which opened at his touch. Behind it, the Dementors were already waiting, eagerly, he assumed. They knew what happened when someone came to visit. He was sobbing now, the tears freezing on his face, as he entered this den of horrors.

The demons surrounded him at once, their inhuman figures and faces hidden by tattered robes and hoods. They floated around him, reaching out to him, then recoiled when they saw the amulet he was wearing. Keith was close to collapsing from the effect of their aura. His body felt as if it was freezing solid, and his mind was caught in a whirlwind of trauma and shame.

And yet he didn’t give up. Didn’t get overwhelmed, like anyone else would have been. Didn’t break. Instead he snarled at them, his hatred warming him enough to pull out half a dozen sticks and throwing them into the midst of the horde. Hissing, he drew his wand and undid the transfiguration of the muggles he had captured. The dementors immediately went for the six muggles, almost entering a feeding frenzy.

As he had been ordered by his master, Keith stayed until the last muggle’s soul had been sucked out. Once more the dementors swarmed around him, almost but not quite touching him, and he heard the hint of whispers before they left. His limbs were so cold, he had lost almost all feeling in them. White spots covered the exposed skin. He knew he’d need a healer after this, to treat frostbite, maybe worse.

Hissing, he aimed his wand at the soulless husks left on the floor.

“Avada Kedavra!”

As he killed and vanished the muggles one by one, he swore that those Aurors whose escape had caused this punishment would pay for it. Pay with their very souls!

*****

“This sounds backwards. Why would we infiltrate the ‘Silver Siren’ if we want to know what’s going on in the ‘Pleasing Pixie’? Kenneth Fenbrick didn’t even try to hide his suspicions when he addressed his new and self-appointed ‘partner’, Mathilda. If that even was her real name. His old and real partner, Bertha Limmington, was supposed to support him, but she remained silent. The glares the witch sent at the courtesan spoke volumes though.

“Darling, I explained that already. The ‘Pixie’ is a gambling and pleasure den, run by Finnegan Greenbrand. One of the Dark Lord’s men. He’ll be expecting us, and know your faces. The ‘Siren’ belongs to Esmeralda Burke, who has been very careful to stay neutral in this war. Hence it’s considered neutral ground.” Mathilda sighed, and Kenneth had the distinct impression she was annoyed at him.

“She’s a fool then. The Dark Lord will take over her business as well,” Bertha stated.

“Ultimately, yes. But at the current point, trying to take over Burke’s business would galvanize the remaining ‘old crowd’ of Knockturn Alley into opposing him with all they have left. They’d lose, but they’d hurt him,” Mathilda explained. “Neither will break the truce, informal as it is.”

Kenneth blinked. “Merlin, do you plan to make them break the truce? Set the old scum against the Dark Lord?”

The other witch shook her head. “No, I want to gather information from some of the regulars of both venues. Though I’d not mind if what you proposed would happen, as long as I am not in the line of curses when it does.”

“The other gangs might just cut and run if that happens. Darrin Stanson’s fate was a clear demonstration of the Dark Lord’s power,” Bertha countered.

“Those who are afraid have already fled. The rest are entrenched. They’ve been in the Alley for generations, they won’t leave as long as they see a chance,” Mathilda said while examining her appearance once more. Not that she had to, in Kenneth’s opinion - the French-trained courtesan looked as attractive or alluring as her reputation indicated. She must have noticed his glances, since she smirked at him and let her robe show a bit more cleavage. And since the skimpy thing already showed her navel, that was no mean feat.

A stinging hex to his buttocks interrupted his current trail of thoughts. He sent a grateful smile to his partner - she had just broken the siren’s spell on him. “So, what’s the plan? We wait outside, ready to spring you if you call?” Kenneth sounded as casually professional as he could, after his gaffe.

“Merlin, no! Burke’s no fool, the second a fight breaks out inside, the ‘Siren’ is locked down. You’d have to fight through the guards outside, and break through the wards, to reach me. No, I’ll need you inside, with me. That way you can also do something more useful than staying around and attracting the wrong kind of attention.”

Kenneth nodded. It sounded convincing. And he would rather wait inside than outside. Sometimes people in the seedy alley got desperate, and would even take on two armed and ready mercenaries. “I guess two more wands for hire won’t look out of place there.” He grinned - he’d have to play his role well, of course.

“The Dark Lord’s minions will be looking for a new pair of wands for hire, so that won’t work well. Three courtesans though…” Mathilda grinned, and with a flick of her wand, two robes floated towards Kenneth and his partner. Skimpy, frilly robes. He exchanged a glance with Bertha, who was staring at the robe coming towards her as if it was a basilisk, and turned back to vehemently oppose this idea on her behalf when the spy continued: “Aberforth agrees with the plan, and he and a few of his brother’s friends will be our backup.”

The Auror closed his mouth at once. He didn’t want to oppose Dumbledore - any Dumbledore.

“Now get dressed, so we can start your training.” Mathilda clapped her hands together.

“Training?” Kenneth and Bertha asked in unison.

“Well, of course. You can’t pass for apprentice-courtesans without some training.” The spy shook her head at the two Aurors. “Merlin, did you honestly expect we’d jump into this this evening? Amateurs! If you’re quick studies, we’ll be ready in a week!”

Kenneth blinked. Then he realised - courtesan training. With the very attractive spy, and his partner...

“Get your mind out of the gutter, darling! I’ll be teaching you how to move, act and speak so people will think you’re a courtesan in training. We’re not going to train in bed.”

The spy was shaking her head at him, and Bertha was glaring at him. What had he done to deserve this?

*****

“Are you certain you wish to take part in this?”

Remus Lupin watched while Sirius addressed his four lovely … lovers. Chantal, Eugénie, Laure and Valérie were sitting in the salon in Grimmauld Place 12, sprawled over the couch there, with a spot left free in the middle of the four.

Chantal nodded. “Yes, we are.” The other three Veela nodded their agreement.

“Alright then,” Sirius smiled and went to sit down on the couch. “Now, Dumbledore said that our first mission...”

“What?” Remus stared at him. Did his friend really just … he shook his head in disbelief and stood up. “Sirius has failed to explain this properly. This is very dangerous. The Dark Lord has many followers, and the death toll is rising each day. Among the Death Eaters are some of the most brutal, lethal wands in Britain, maybe the world. Facing them means risking your life. Are you really sure you want to do this? You are guests here, your family is in France.” He glared at Sirius again. Didn’t his friend see that he was responsible for those girls coming to Britain? How could he let them risk their lives so causally? Yes, they were honour-bound to defend their host, but that meant defending the house, not going out and attacking Death Eaters.

The four were all staring at him as if Remus was the lunatic in the room. And Sirius was doing it too!

Valérie, who had slid into Sirius lap as soon as the wizard had sat down, shifted a bit and met Remus’s eyes. “You’re wrong,” the young Veela declared. “Our family is ‘ere.”

Chantal added: “Our parents and our heads are aware of this.”

Eugénie nodded. “They didn’t call Fleur back, even though she’s the youngest d’Aigle in Britain, and ‘ell-bent on ‘elping ‘er Beel”.

“But…” Remus shook his head. They were so young, they had all their lives still ahead of them.

“Did you ‘esitate, or even consider not fighting, back when you’d just graduated?” Laure, sitting on the armrest, asked.

Remus hadn’t an answer for that, and sat down. He looked at Sirius, who smiled lopsidedly at him.

“They got you there, Moony. We’ve been in their place, and we did the same thing.” Sirius’s hand held Valérie’s.

Remus then finally realised that his family had truly grown. He must have missed it since he had been at Hogwarts, though that was no excuse. He just hoped these four wouldn’t suffer as the Marauders had suffered.

*****

Sirius Black smiled, a bit sadly, at Remus as the werewolf sank into his seat. He was Sirius’ best friend, but he spent most of his time at Hogwarts. As a result, he didn’t know his girls that well. Remus probably didn’t know him that well either, Sirius suspected. They had been separated for more than a decade, after all, and both had changed a lot. And Sirius trying to relive his youth hadn’t helped, or so he thought.

Well, Remus would get over it. Sirius pulled Valérie closer to him, resting his chin on her shoulder and inhaling her scent. He knew she was smiling, and would be closing her eyes for just a second. If he could, he’d stay like this forever - surrounded by his family. Safe. Happy.

Sighing, he spoke up. “Now, before I was so rudely interrupted,” he grinned at Remus, who glared at him, “I was about to tell you what I heard from Dumbledore.” That made Remus straighten in his seat, and Sirius both saw and felt the Veela shift on the couch. “The old man told me that he needs a group of wands who can react and strike rapidly. Since we don’t have jobs or other responsibilities other than enjoying life, we’re a good choice for that, unlike Moony over there, who has been working on suppressing the spirits of students for a few years now.”

Remus rolled his eyes at that, as expected. Sirius’s grin widened. He pulled out a few discs from his enchanted robe’s pocket. “Our first mission is to provide backup for some spies, if needed. Those will alert us if that’s the case. If they are vibrating, we’ll meet up here, then head out. Just wear them as a ring, or as another piece of jewelry. No kinky business though - they are from the Headmaster, and you never know what he can do with them!” His girlfriends giggled, and even Remus had to smile at that.

“We’ll not be the only ones, of course. Remus will be joining us as well, if he doesn’t have detentions to oversee, or tests to grade. Nymphadora will help out, if her job and boyfriend leave her time enough.” Sirius kept his tone light, but watched if Remus showed any reaction. His friend said he had gotten over the metamorphmagus, but Moony always had been the most serious among the Marauders, not one to love and leave like the others. Not counting James’ obsession with Lily, of course, or the traitor’s lack of luck with witches. Sirius’s friend didn’t twitch or brood, so he took that as a good sign. “Bill and Fleur are also joining us, so I am thinking of calling us the Double-V-Force. Veela Victory!”

Remus groaned at that, but his girlfriends giggled.

The teacher shook his head. “Please be careful. You’ll be facing trained killers.”

“Moony, we’ve not spent our days in bed. We’ve been training too, for a while. Trust me, the girls have what it takes. They’re better than we were when we started.” Much better, counting their ability to throw fireballs and transform.

Remus sighed. “This has been coming for some time then?”

Sirius wasn’t sure if his friend was talking about the training, or his relationship. Either way, he nodded. “Yes, Moony.”

“Guess you’ve finally grown up. Who’d have thought?”

“Hey!” Sirius frowned when his friend laughed and his girlfriends giggled again. He was happy too though. Maybe Moony knew him better than he thought.

*****

“No, no, no! You are far too forward, darling.” Mathilda Miller shook her head at the male Auror. “You need to be confident, assured of yourself, but not pushy or arrogant.”

“Some witches like that.”

“Some witches pretend to like that, more likely. But you forgot again: As a courtesan, you’re not hitting on witches to seduce them, you are trying to entice them to hire you. Pushing yourself on them just makes you appear cheap or desperate. And that’s no way to do business in this business,” Mathilda lectored the Auror. She noticed his partner smirking, behind his back, and almost smiled. The witch had been acting rather hostile so far, so it was good to see her loosen up some.

“I’ve never had problems. Lots of witches could tell you that,” Kenneth grumbled.

“That was as an Auror. Big, bad, impressive. You can’t act like that as a courtesan.” Mathilda didn’t mention that once you got a reputation, once people competed for your attention, you could act like that. She had been in that position, once. And had lost it all. Or given it up. But if she mentioned that, then the fool would let his ego drive him to act like that, and cause their mission to fail.

“Why aren’t you telling her what she’s doing wrong?” The Auror pointed at his partner.

“She’s not doing anything wrong. She’s cool, classy, and smart. She’ll draw her share of attention in the ‘Siren’.” Perhaps a bit too cold, even if some wizards liked that kind of fake challenge. But it was just a cover, after all. They wouldn’t be doing real business. Not unless it was needed.

She noticed that Kenneth was staring at his partner, blinking, then grinning. “Did you just tell her she’s acting like a courtesan when she’s just being herself?”

Mathilda rubbed her forehead while Bertha made her displeasure of that remark known with some very creative language that made the other Auror cringe. Well, she had planned to take a week to train the pair enough to pass muster. It looked like she’d need every single evening.

*****

“Really? You faced half a dozen of Macedonian Marauders?”

“Oh, yes. Just me, and my wand. But they were spread out, and I had their number. First, I took out their leader…”

Kenneth Fenbrick tuned the witch’s tale out for a moment. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. He knew his robes only looked flimsy. That the spells on them were actually stronger than the ones on his ‘civilian robes’. He knew he was not unprotected. But the looks he was getting, in the ‘Silver Siren’... he really missed his Auror robes. The witches and wizards would look differently at him. Granted, they’d curse him too. But he wasn’t certain if that wouldn’t be preferable.

Bertha Limmington didn’t seem to be affected, even though her robes were as skimpy as his, just cut differently. If he focused on her head, he could imagine her watching a crime scene easily. Well, focusing on her head was a bit of a challenge, right now. And on a crime scene, she’d be crouching, bending over, and doing all sorts of things that her current attire was not meant to do. Or was meant to do, given their cover.

He shook his head, and again listened to the wand for hire trying to impress him with obviously fictional tales of daring victories against Balkan mercenaries. She wasn’t ugly, she was actually rather pretty, but she was grabby, and her attitude grated on his nerves. And he couldn’t help but adding charges in his head during her tales - from breaking and entering to murder.

On the other hand, as long as he was flirting with her, no one else should be bothering him, and she seemed content to tell her tales, buy him drinks, and cop a feel. Rather easy to handle. He was here to protect the spy, after all.

And he was faring better than Bertha, who had to deal with two pushy scumbags trying to outdo each other in their attempts to impress her. Kenneth had wanted to curse both of them a few times already just to shut them up, but his partner had a much bigger tolerance for such idiots. Probably a childhood trauma.

Their spy was sitting with a bulky wizard. Gerard Bulstrode, if Kenneth had overheard his boasting introduction correctly. The wizard had been slightly slurring his words already. But, as far as they knew, he was a regular in the ‘Pleasing Pixie’ as well, and probably well-connected too in the sort of circles that wouldn’t mind the Dark Lord taking over.

So, the mission, such as it was, was going well. That would be worth some more embarrassment, or gropes. Probably. At least he would be getting paid overtime for this, and didn’t have to work as a babysitter during Hogsmeade weekends. He’d like it even more if he could list the training sessions with Mathilda as overtime as well, but that would mean he’d have to explain why he’d needed special training, and what kind. And that information was something that wouldn’t ever reach the Auror office.

The grabby witch pulled him closer again, not noticing how fake his smile and laughter at her flat and crude jokes was. Kenneth hoped their spy would hurry up so they could leave.

*****

“We’ll never speak about this evening again.”

Mathilda Miller carefully didn’t smile when she and the two undercover Aurors gathered again in her safehouse after they had left the ‘Siren’. She felt like it though - Kenneth’s declaration was funny. But the two were already glaring daggers at her.

“We were successful though. Dear Gerard was quite talkative. Apparently, the ‘Pixie’ is full of ‘the right sort of people in this war’, and Keith Yennington is a regular there - and influential. It looks like that’s one base for the Dark Lord. Gerard also mentioned that the brothel has lately been offering a ‘novelty service’, as he called it: Muggles. Foreign muggles even, he didn’t know the country,” Mathilda said.

“Muggle trafficking?” The wizard used his wand to remove the muggle make-up that had helped with his disguise. “Why would they do that, and why now, in the middle of a war?”

“The muggles change frequently, and the owner of the place does not care if they get ‘damaged’,” the courtesan continued in a grim tone.

“It makes sense then. While kidnapping British Muggles on that scale would endanger the Statute of Secrecy, there are a number of countries where muggles can go missing in large numbers without anyone growing suspicious.” Bertha explained.

“I can’t believe they’d smuggle muggles to Britain just for a brothel. That’s not exactly profitable, and they could use anyone involved in this for more important tasks.” Ken conjured a screen and changed his robes.

“So they are important somehow, for the Dark Lord. Sacrifices for rituals?” Mathilda didn’t wince, even though that thought brought up memories she’d rather not think about.

“That, and… he’ll need to feed his dementors somehow. There haven’t been enough kidnappings to sustain them, and we haven’t heard of muggles falling prey to them either,” Bertha added.

This time Mathilda did wince. To be fed to a dementor… her soul devoured… a fate worse than death indeed. She resolved again to not let the Death Eaters capture her alive, if it came to it.

Kenneth spoke up almost eagerly though: “That means we can raid it with all the force we need.”

Mathilda thought it would be a good idea to stay away from Knockturn Alley for a while.

*****

“I’ve got news.”

Harry Potter looked up from the book he was reading in their private room. Ron had just entered, an excited expression on his face. Nearby, Hermione glanced over, but didn’t interrupt her experiment.

Ron summoned a butterbeer from their stash, and sat down next to Harry. “Fred and George just had a meeting with McGonagall. Apparently, she thinks they hexed Marietta Edgecombe, since the girl’s hair has changed color and she had a persistent pimple on her forehead, with neither of them reacting to the usual counter-curses or remedies.”

“Edgecombe?” Harry wasn’t familiar with that name.

“Ravenclaw sixth year. Rather shy and quiet. She is a friend of Cho Chang.” Hermione explained.

“Ah!” Harry knew the Ravenclaw seeker from Quidditch, but had never bothered to get to know her friends.

“So, we know she means Harry ill, but we don’t know what she’s planning. Spying, or something worse?” Ron finished his butterbeer.

“It’s always the quiet ones…” Harry quoted, and Hermione sniggered while Ron blinked. He explained to his friend: “It’s a muggle saying. It means that the quiet people can be the most dangerous.”

“Ah.” Ron nodded, not asking further. “So, what do we do now? I guess interrogating her is out of the question?”

“That would only alert those working with her to the fact that we know about her.” Hermione shook her head.

“If she’s not acting alone.” Ron added.

Harry frowned. “The curse didn’t trigger in the first meeting, so she would have changed her intentions about me in a week, all by herself. I think it’s more likely that someone is behind her, or at least influencing her.“

“Influencing her?” Hermione frowned. “I’ll have to check if there are spells on her during the next meeting.”

“Pomfrey should have found them if Edgecombe has gone to her about the curse’s effect.” Harry said.

“She might not have been looking for compulsion spells or worse, if it looks just like a prank.” Hermione defended her idea. “Besides, it won’t hurt us to check her.”

“She could have been bribed easily,” Ron spoke up. “Gold moves hearts, as Lockhart said once, and the Edgecombes are not particularly rich.” From the way his friend talked, Harry deduced that the Edgecombes were in the same financial bracket as the Weasleys.

“It could be Malfoy.” Harry knew the Slytherin had the gold and the motive.

“Or Voldemort putting pressure on her family, which in turn puts pressure on her,” Hermione added, as often thinking of the worst possible case.

“Let’s inform the Headmaster. If it’s Voldemort, he’ll find out. If it’s Malfoy, it won’t hurt,” Ron declared.

Harry winced a bit. His friend noticed. “I take it that you didn’t ask for permission to curse our fellow students?”

The Boy-Who-Lived shook his head, together with his retainer.

Ron chuckled. “Well, knowing him, he’ll probably give you a detention, and award Hermione some points for creative spellwork and good thinking.”

Hermione smiled. Harry glared at her. “You expected that from the start!”

His girlfriend didn’t show any regret. “Of course I did! It’s one of the perks of being your retainer - you’re responsible for anything I do to protect you.”

“That’s because I am supposed to discipline you if needed.” Harry frowned at his friend.

“Technically you gave me permission to cast the curse. It would be quite hypocritical if you decided to punish me now.” Hermione kept her tone light, but Harry knew the topic wasn’t something either of them was comfortable with. Some fantasies of his after seeing a few of Sirius’s books from his teenage years notwithstanding.

So he sighed theatrically: “Outplayed by my own retainer. Some Patron I am!”

Giggling, Hermione slid into his lap. “The best!”

Well, maybe not the worst, Harry thought. He tried his best, at least.

*****

“And here are your rooms,” Sirius Black opened the two doors with a flick of his wand and a flourish of his hand. The two rooms were connected, of course, and he didn’t think his two latest house guests would be sleeping in separate beds, but technically, each had their own room. He had been raised to be a proper host, after all.

“Thank you, Sirius,” Fleur smiled at him. “Our apartments were lacking wards strong enough to be safe.”

Bill Weasley nodded, a bit stiffly. Sirius knew the proud young curse-breaker didn’t like moving to Grimmauld Place. But the redheaded wizard was aware that he and his girlfriend, maybe soon fiancée, were in danger, and that their flats, like so many others, were not safe enough these days. And the alternative to accepting Sirius’s gracious offer was to either move to France, or to the Burrow. And what young couple would want to move in with either of their parents? At their age, Sirius would have died rather than moving back to his parents. Well, given that they had thrown him out before he graduated, he would have died for moving back with them. Maybe. For all his mother’s madness, Black blood was usually thicker than water.

Sirius forced the increasingly morbid thoughts away and grinned lecherously at the two. “Now, the rooms are charmed for privacy, so you don’t need to restrain yourself.”

Fleur simply nodded, smiling. “I expected that.”

Bill coughed, but didn’t show any other reaction, to Sirius’s disappointment.

“Also, you can call on Kreacher, but I’m not responsible for anything he says if you do so. He’s got the foulest attitude of any house elf I’ve ever seen. Hermione claims it’s a result of his harsh treatment by my family, or the residual effect of the dark magic done in the house in the past, and not his fault, but even she looked ready to hex the bugger more than once, even if she won’t admit it,” Sirius warned them. They didn’t look impressed. Well, they’d learn. A few new choice curse words, at least.

Valérie appeared at the end of the hallway, and walked towards them. Sirius’s friend and lover was wearing a black silk robe, slit several times from the hem all the way to the plunging neckline, effectively turning it into a bunch of silk strips held together by spells. He smiled widely and appreciatively at the sight, and was about to wrap an arm around her as soon as she was close enough when he noticed her and Fleur staring at each other, as if they were sizing each other up. Not as if - they were doing exactly that!

He didn’t notice that he and Bill had taken a step back until after the fact. Seeing the two Veela circling each other was too distracting - and exciting. It was a dominance play, he realised, a dim memory of one of Hagrid’s lessons briefly going through his mind. Like cats meeting for the first time. He expected them to sprout feathers and wings and laying into each other any second as the staring contest continued, with neither wizard nor Veela present saying a single word.

Then Valérie moved to him, pressing herself into his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and sliding her thigh up his while he moved his arm around her waist. The two Veela still hadn’t broken eye contact, and the animagus thought he saw some yellow spots appear in their eyes.

Fleur cocked her head, then slipped her arm into Bill’s. Another moment passed, then the younger Veela nodded, followed by Valérie, and then Fleur led Bill into her room.

Once the door had closed behind them, Sirius took a deep, shivering breath - Valérie was still all but hanging on him - and looked at his girlfriend. The Veela was smiling, apparently satisfied with the outcome of the encounter, then licked her lips before pulling his head towards her for a kiss.

They didn’t make it to Sirius’s or her room, and he wasn’t sure he managed to cast a privacy spell in time, but Sirius didn’t care.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort studied the stain on the floor that had been a muggle a minute before, then back at the drooling, bleeding wizard clutching a wand to his chest on the other side of the room. “Your wands do need some more work, I think,” he commented in a dry voice.

“Indeed,” Steinberg, standing next to him while an enchanted quill wrote down notes on a floating piece of parchment agreed. “Though I am getting closer. This model lasted for several days of intense use before the wielder lost control. Carefully managed, it could be used with expendable forces to great effect.”

Voldemort was forced to agree - the test subject, as Steinberg had called him, was a rather weak wizard, with no talent for the Dark Arts, and yet, with this wand, he had managed great things before it had turned him into a mindless husk. Maybe soulless, even - he’d have to get that tested by offering the body to the dementors. “It would be bad for morale though, if my forces started to fall victims to their own wands.” He could always pass off the test subjects as having been punished for a grave failure - they were chosen from the kind of wizards his followers would easily believe that of - but even his most gullible men would object to be turned into sacrificial weapons.

“Without actual field testing I will be needing more test subjects and test materials,” Steinberg finished his note-taking.

“I’ll send another volunteer to you, and have more muggles delivered.” Voldemort turned to leave.

“I’d prefer two volunteers, to compare their reactions,” Steinberg sounded hopeful and eager. The man was maybe a bit too overenthusiastic, but he was certainly talented.

The Dark Lord nodded. “Two then.”

When he entered his chamber, Bellatrix was waiting for him, lounging on his bed. “Master!” The dark witch exclaimed, jumping up and falling to her knees.

“Bella.” He bade her rise with a gesture. The slender witch complied, her black robes moving around her body, drawing attention to her restored youth and beauty. She didn’t move toward him, she knew better than that, but she did her best to entice him to come to her - a game both of them had liked ever since their reunion.

“I’ve spoken with my sister,” she said. No need to ask which sister - as far as Bella was concerned, she had only one sister. The other one simply hadn’t been polite enough to accept that she was dead, yet. “Her son has told her that Potter has started to train more students in ‘self-defence’. He is apparently trying to find out more.”

The Dark Lord scoffed at the thought. Young Malfoy was an idiot. A sometimes useful, eager idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. If not for the gold he would soon control, Voldemort would ignore the remaining Malfoy family. As things were, he put pressure on the mother but hadn’t spoken to the son yet. “He might be a useful distraction, nothing more.”

Bella nodded, not hiding her scorn for her own nephew. Voldemort had to remind himself not to underestimate anyone. That had led to his downfall once already.

“Arrange for someone who takes part in those meetings to donate a memory, and obliviate them afterwards.” That would allow him to see for himself what the one with the power to defeat him was doing.

“At once Master!” Bella turned to leave, but he stopped her with a raised hand.

“There is no rush.” He glanced at his bed, then back at her.

The dark witch smiled. With a gesture she caused her robe to fall down to the floor and slowly started to walk over to the bed.

*****


	28. Raids

**Chapter 28: Raids**

“Ah, Mister Potter. Right on time for your detention.”

“Good evening, Headmaster.” Harry Potter didn’t let his slight unease show when he entered the Headmaster’s office. At least he thought he didn’t. The trilling greeting from Fawkes was as cheerful as ever.

“Please take a seat.” The old wizard gestured and a chair appeared in front of his desk. “I have not informed the other teachers about the real reason for this detention. Even though it was done without permission, Miss Granger’s curse is a rather clever way to protect yourself. I trust you will keep the secret as well.”

Harry smiled, torn between pride and annoyance. “Of course, Headmaster.”

“You might be asking yourself: ‘If it was a good thing, why I am still being punished?’” Dumbledore looked at Harry over the rim of his glasses.

“Because we did break the rules, and such actions have to have consequences?” Harry answered.

“That is only partially true. One of the most important purposes of Hogwarts is to let children make mistakes without suffering drastic consequences - so they may learn from them. A detention should serve to teach rule breakers what they did wrong, and how to do better next time. Even if a few only ever seem to learn that they shouldn’t get caught.”

Dumbledore smiled wrily and casually summoned the lemon drop bowl to his hands right when Fawkes was about to dive at it. The phoenix, bereft of its intended target, slid over the polished wood and launched itself into the air again, as if he had intended to do that all along. Not unlike Crookshanks, Harry thought, when the half-kneazle missed a jump from the bed to the window sill.

“Well, I know what we did wrong. We should have informed you, Headmaster, and asked for permission before implementing our plan.” Harry smiled.

“I see Sirius told you about his own school years, Mister Potter.” Dumbledore chuckled. “He tried to argue that each time he was sent to detention. And each time he was told that the fact he had earned another detention was proof that he had not learned his lesson, so to speak.”

“I haven’t earned near as many detentions as he did,” Harry pointed out.

“No, you have not. Fortunately, since you carry far more responsibility on your shoulders than Sirius did. Which is why you are here by yourself, for Miss Granger would be here as well, if not for your special circumstances.” The Headmaster popped a lemon drop in his mouth, which caused Fawkes to stick his head below his right wing.

Harry’s smile grew a bit forced. He didn’t regret becoming Hermione’s Patron, nor did he think it had been a mistake. “My retainer and myself have already discussed her actions,” he stated formally.

Dumbledore nodded at him, but did not comment on the matter. In a way, the occasional remarks from the Headmaster were much more annoying than Sirius’s reminder of what he could do with Hermione. His godfather at least made it clear he was mostly teasing, and didn’t really think Harry would follow his suggestions. Dumbledore though didn’t seem to have the same amount of trust in Harry’s handling of his duties.

“Do you feel that I have failed in my duties as her Patron, or that I am likely to fail?” Harry asked, maybe a bit too sharply.

“I do not think you have failed your charge, Mister Potter. But I found that past performance is not a perfect guard against future mistakes. On the contrary, complacency and overconfidence sneak up on even the most cautious wizard over time.” He smiled sadly. “A few reminders of our own fallibility often are the lesser evil.”

Harry gathered that the Headmaster was speaking from personal experience, and nodded. He wondered what kind of mistakes the Headmaster had made, in his long life.

“That said, it is time for your lesson. What kind of weaknesses does your scheme have?” Dumbledore leaned forward.

“It’s centred on me. It won’t detect someone wishing to hurt Hermione. Or my other friends,” Harry said. They had known that all along.

“That is just one weakness. Your spell depends on the intent to do harm. Someone who does not realise that whatever they are doing will be harming you will not trigger the curse. And there are multiple ways to achieve that - even without magic,” Dumbledore explained. “Though, granted, Tom does tend to use magic for everything. And his followers, so blind in their belief in the superiority of magic, will likely do the same.”

Harry was busy trying to think of ways to use a student as an unwitting tool. Most mental manipulation spells would leave some hint, changing the target’s behaviour partially at least. Though to spot that would require some familiarity with the target’s normal behaviour. He could not really claim he was close to most of the students visiting his lessons. But most of them came with friends as well, who would spot such changes. Especially if they learned about them in the next lesson. “I see. We might teach them about mind control spells next.”

“That is a good idea. While many of the Dark Lord’s followers prefer more obvious curses, others like to control and dominate their victims. A few though are imaginative and cunning, and no strangers to the oblique approach. A truly dangerous foe would not send a spelled victim to your lesson, not if the purpose was just to spy,” Dumbledore said with a smile.

“They could enchant an item to record us… or to harm us.” Harry didn’t want to imagine what an Erumpent horn would do, if smuggled into the room and detonated.

“The wards will take care of most of those ploys. Wizards thought of sending explosive or poisonous gifts to their enemies centuries ago, and counter-measures were created rather quickly.” Dumbledore didn’t smile. “But determined students could create dangerous items on the school grounds. While it would require great luck or skill to smuggle them past the various wards, it’s not impossible.”

“The dorms are heavily warded.” Harry nodded.

“As are other rooms.” Dumbledore sighed. “And yet, no defense is perfect. Students keep finding ways around the wards, if only to prank the other students.”

Harry suddenly realised why the Weasley twins had been able to keep pranking for years, without a teacher stopping them for good. “Do they know they have been serving as testers for the school’s defenses?”

Dumbledore simply smiled enigmatically.

“Do you consider Hermione’s curse as a test as well?” Harry wanted to know if they had let them put a curse on students.

“In a way. It was harmless enough to not trigger any ward - at least as far as the obvious effect is concerned. And yet, even a Wand-Lighting Charm can have deadly consequences if it reveals an enemy hiding in the darkness.” Dumbledore sighed.

“Hermione wouldn’t go that far!” Harry stated.

“I think we both know she would go even farther, if she thinks it is needed to protect you.” Dumbledore met his eyes again. “And so would you, for her.”

Harry nodded, reluctantly. He didn’t like to admit it. “We both have survived several attempts to kill us.”

“That is correct. It would be unwise to hold you two, and your friends, to the same standards as other students.” The Headmaster sighed. “Those are dark times indeed, when one has to contemplate students killing each other.”

“We’re only defending ourselves,” Harry said.

“Indeed. And yet, I fear the definition of ‘defending’ will end up quite stretched, before this war is over.” Dumbledore looked at the window for a moment. “But enough of that. I trust that in the future you will keep me informed about the measures you plan to take to defend yourself.”

“Of course, Headmaster,” Harry answered. Their defensive measures, but not the other ideas they had been throwing around.

He somehow doubted Dumbledore would approve of some of their plans.

*****

Hermione Granger was waiting in their room for Harry’s detention to end. She felt slightly guilty - it was her fault that Harry was getting punished. Only slightly though, since it had been necessary, after all, and had been for his own good. She checked her watch, a gift from her parents, completely mechanical. She could have an electronic one now, thanks to the shielding ward she had developed, but she had gotten used to it. And not having to worry about a battery was nice as well. On the other hand, she also liked to know the precise time. Maybe she should get a radio-controlled clock with runes, to adjust her wrist watch to…

The door opened, and she tensed, wand in hand, before relaxing. It was Harry, looking a bit tired. They embraced as soon as the door had closed behind him, and she could feel how tense he was. Tenser than she would have expected. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but controlled herself and placed a kiss on his lips instead.

“Ron’s not here?” Harry asked.

“He’s with Padma,” Hermione answered. She didn’t even feel slightly guilty about sending their friend to his girlfriend so she could be alone with Harry. It was for his and Padma’s own good too, after all.

Harry grinned, then pulled her closer again. For a bit, they simply stood there, in each other’s arms. Then Hermione’s curiosity won out over her desire to enjoy the moment. “So, what did the Headmaster say? And what did you have to do?”

Harry sighed, and went to sit down on the couch, summoning a soda on the way. Hermione followed him and slipped into his lap, leaning her head against his shoulder. He took a while to speak, gathering his thoughts. It must have been important then.

“We spoke about the wards, and our security measures. We weren’t as clever as we thought,” he finally said.

“Oh? What did we miss?” Hermione asked, her pride stung.

“The Dark Lord’ll probably use students as tools who don’t know that they are harming us,” Harry explained.

“Mind control? That can be spotted. We can teach the others how to spot it too.” She had to adjust the lesson plans, but they had been crafted with some leeway, to take unforeseen changes into account.

“Yes. But the worst danger will be those who are not under a spell.”

Hermione took a moment to consider that. “Duped. Or interrogated and then obliviated.”

“Yes.”

“Well, we can’t defend against that. But we can feed them false information that way.” Hermione started to plan. If they downplayed their skills, they’d be underestimated by the Death Eaters.

“As long as it doesn’t impact the lessons for the students. They need to learn how to escape an attack.” Harry cocked his head to the side to meet her eyes. He was serious.

Hermione sighed, then nodded.

“Dumbledore was more concerned about dangerous enchanted items that might slip through the existing wards of the school, and the dorms. You wouldn’t have an idea about such things?”

Hermione nodded. “I’ve had a few ideas.” More than a few. She’d been planning how to wipe out the entire Slytherin House quite often in earlier years, given her feelings on their attitude towards muggleborns. Some of her plans hadn’t been that impractical or impossible either.

“Anything they could use against us?”

“Hm. If they learn about muggle composite poisons, and explosives.” It wasn’t very likely, given their attitudes towards muggles.

“Wouldn’t the wards spot that?” Harry frowned.

“Not before the reaction gets going. And with explosives, the wards can be overloaded. With poison… some poison doesn’t trigger the wards. Like lead.” Hermione smiled at the sort of pun.

“Are there any magical ways to duplicate this?”

“I don’t know any offhand that would slip past the wards. Though if one used say one of the duelling areas in Slytherin, where the wards are less strict…” Hermione bit her lip as she was starting to plan that.

“Or our own training area?” Harry asked.

“Ah… yes. That’s a possible weakness too. But still somewhat protected, as long as we are present. Someone would spot it, probably.” Hermione nodded.

Harry didn’t seem to be too reassured. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, until he was facing the ceiling.

Hermione ran a finger over his lips, pulling back before he could snap at it. “I doubt any junior Death Eater has the knowledge to pull this off. Can you imagine Malfoy trying that?”

Harry laughed. “He’s more the type to ambush you in a dark hallway.” Then he froze.

“We’ll have to change patrol routes. If we’re too predictable we’re just begging for an attack. Or a trap.” Hermione shook her head.

“The map will show us an ambush,” Harry stated.

“But not a trap. Most of the traps are curses, and would be detected though. But if you combine enough weak, seemingly harmless effects…” Hermione trailed off.

“Great. How many pureblood bigots are dumb enough to follow Voldemort, and smart enough to pull that off?”

“Not many. Too much of a risk for the smarter ones,” Hermione answered.

“Unless their family is held hostage,” Harry said with a grim expression.

“Most of the families are moving to the old mansions for safety. And if we’re taking precautions, like moving in groups, we should be reasonably safe.”

“Best we can do, I think,” Harry agreed. “At least the school’s security is better than I thought. The Headmaster explained a lot today.”

“That was a useful detention then. I should break the rules more often. Or, I should get caught doing it more often!” Hermione joked.

Harry huffed. “I should put you over my knee and spank you!”

Hermione was reminded of a fantasy she had had, and hoped she didn’t blush. To cover it up, she leaned forward and kissed her boyfriend.

For quite some time neither one spoke, and when they broke apart again, both readjusted their robes and had to calm down their breathing.

“Dumbledore also asked about my, our plans for the time after Hogwarts and the war,” Harry stated suddenly, right when the muggleborn witch was about to doze off curled up against him.

“Oh.” She didn’t say anything more.

“He was talking about my parents, the difficulties they went through.”

Hermione knew what ‘difficulties’ he meant. James Potter’s decision to enter a concubinage with Lily Evans, and his refusal to marry a pureblood wife to give him heirs had been very controversial. In the wake of their heroic deaths, and Harry’s subsequent adoption that made him a pureblood, that had been covered up, but Hermione and Harry had dug it up researching his family. Letters. Articles. Testimonies. Sirius and Remus generally didn’t go into details, but Sirius had let a few things slip when he had drank a bit too much. It wasn’t a pretty picture. And she wasn’t looking forward to go through it as well.

“He said heroic deeds could move mountains,” Harry went on.

“He thinks you will defeat Voldemort, and then follow in your father’s footsteps?” Hermione asked, tensing up. Concubinage. Adopting his own children, so they’d be purebloods. They’d have to have children very quickly after Voldemort’s defeat, so the fame wouldn’t have faded and the Wizengamot could not refuse the petition. She would have to get pregnant quickly. Of course it all depended on beating Voldemort. But without defeating the Dark Lord, they’d have no future anyway.

And yet… even so, she’d remain the muggleborn witch. Granted, other witches would stop trying to seduce Harry, once he had pureblood heirs. Well, most of them. Some wouldn’t. Like Greengrass. Hermione ground her teeth together. That stupid blonde had started the ‘Harry Hunting’, which painfully reminded her each day that everyone expected her to become Harry’s mistress while he married a pureblood witch!

Harry pulled her closer again, and placed a kiss on her forehead. “We’ll find a way.”

She nodded, even though she doubted it, sometimes. “We’ll find a way.”

*****

Ron Weasley wondered what Harry would have had to do during his detention. Some boring lines? Or some special assignment by the Headmaster? He would have liked to await his best friend’s return in their private room, but Hermione had all but thrown him out. His other best friend had been rather stressed lately, so he had complied. And she had been right about his own girlfriend Padma needing him.

“Father wrote that he and mother have moved into the Brendelson Mansion. Our head of family has put them up, together with other families. It’s more cramped than at home, but safer, or so he claims,” Padma explained, looking worried.

“Lots of families are moving in with their heads. Even emancipated heads of their own families are moving back to their parents,” Ron answered. The Black-Tonkses, for example. Grimmauld Place would be a bit more crowded.

“Your parents too?” Padma looked at him with wide eyes.

“No. The Burrow’s pretty safe. That’s why it’s called the Burrow, despite being all above ground, my dad told me once.” Ron sighed. “But it’s crowded already, so Bill and his fiancée went to Sirius.” He was rather certain that Fleur had insisted - she didn’t get along too well with his and Bill’s mum - but that wasn’t something to be spread outside the family.

“Oh. And your other brothers?” Padma sat down next to him, hands in her lap closing and opening nervously.

Ron reached over and took her right and with his left, squeezing it gently. “Charlie’s still in Romania, but he’ll probably head back as soon as he settles with the preserve there.” Family came first, after all. “Percy moved in already.” And probably wasn’t happy about it - his girlfriend hadn’t come with him, or so Ron’s dad had written.

“At least he’ll be safe.”

Ron winced. The wards were good, but not that good. But the Burrow had a number of escape tunnels, dating back a few centuries before the current house had been built. They’d probably have to rebuild the house, after the war - they were rather prominent enemies of Voldemort. That wasn’t something to spread around either, not even to his girlfriend. She wasn’t family after all. Unlike Harry and Hermione. “But the real problem will be the twins. Can you imagine living with them in the same house?” Well, they were in the same Hogwarts house, but it was different with close to one hundred other students, or just one family.

Padma winced, and he nodded and continued. “It’s not so bad during the vacations, but I think everyone was hoping their shop would take off as soon as possible, and they’d move out.” Even his mum, not that she’d admit it, of course. “On the other hand, it’s good training - Bill likes to joke he only became a Curse-Breaker because he had to avoid the twins’ pranks so often.”

Padma frowned, and Ron almost sighed. His girlfriend really took her not so stellar performance in the self-defense lessons hard. She was like Hermione in that. He took her hand with his right hand, and wrapped his left arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “You know, it’s all about training. You’ve got to let your muscles learn the moves.” Hermione had said something about it, and she usually knew her stuff. He couldn’t say that to Padma though, she was jealous enough already.

“It’s just so frustrating! I try and try, and I get hit all the time anyway. And it hurts!” The Indian witch complained. “And they mock me!”

“That’s just their way of teaching. They don’t mean it,” Ron tried to placate her. Sirius and to a lesser degree Remus had a peculiar style, one that took some getting used to. Of course, Ron, as the 6th son, was used to pranks, teasing, and worse. Padma… not so. “And it’s better in the lessons with Harry.”

“Marginally,” Padma grumbled. “Everyone expects me to be as good as the rest of you! Just because I am your girlfriend!”

Ron briefly squeezed her against his side in response. ‘Everyone’ probably meant Parvati, or some of the Ravenclaws, or anyone else jealous of her.

“And in those lessons, I have to see that snake making eyes at you!” Padma hissed suddenly. “I want to curse her so bad!”

Ron winced, briefly. There she went again. And he had thought Hermione was the one who hated Parkinson the most…

“Once she tries something, we all will curse her,” he reassured her. If only Hermione’s curse would trigger already!

Padma huffed, then climbed into his lap.

Ron smiled, before he kissed her. There they went again. At least something good was coming from that snake’s plot.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick smiled at the pretty witch in the daring robe passing him and and his partner Bertha Limmington on their way to lunch. She smiled back coyly, or so he thought. Was she instead just too polite to show her real feelings? Did she just see the red Auror robes - and wasn’t it nice to wear them again, instead of some civilian disguises? - and an affair she could brag to her friends about? And why should he care about the real reasons she might want to sleep with him for, as long as she wanted to sleep with him? Why did he care?

He sighed, then saw Bertha staring at him. “What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“You don’t do ‘nothing’, Bertha!” He stared at her.

She simply continued to walk towards the tavern they had agreed on for their lunch. Huffing, he caught up to her. They didn’t talk until they had ordered and the food was floating towards their table, and even then they chatted about meaningless things. Not about the thing Kenneth had declared they wouldn’t speak of, ever.

He didn’t think he would ever mind it when Bertha actually followed his wishes. ‘Cool, classy, smart’ had the spy-courtesan, Mathilda, called her. He was wondering about that, about her. And about himself. What was Bertha, to him, apart from being the best partner and friend he had ever had? What did he really know about her? Other than that she looked as attractive in really skimpy robes as he had hoped she would?

And, more importantly, would he look at her the same way he did, if she had slept with him? Was he simply interested in her - and he was, he could admit that, now - because she was not falling for him? Was it just the challenge that drew him, like some clients were drawn to a aloof courtesan, as Mathilda had explained it?

Life had been simpler before that ill-fated undercover mission. Easier.

“Do you ever think about what she told us?” It was a dumb question, he realised it right after he had blurted it out. Bertha was always thinking.

“That I act like a courtesan?” Bertha asked back, in a very cold tone.

“That was my blunder,” Kenneth admitted. “No, I meant, what witches see in wizards. And wizards in witches.”

“Well, I don’t see what they’d see in you,” she answered.

He couldn’t tell if she was making one of her rare jokes, or if she was serious. And it hurt.

“I don’t see what you see in them, either,” Bertha continued, after an awkward pause, and in different tone.

“Them?”

“The witches you sleep with,” she explained.

Before that stupid mission, Kenneth would have answered the question with great, loving details about their bodies. Now he muttered “I don’t know anymore.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence.

*****

Draco Malfoy, Head of the Malfoy Family, smiled while he was walking towards one of the lesser used classrooms in the dungeons. Crabbe and Goyle were following him, as usual. “Stay outside, and don’t let anyone enter!”

With a grunt, the two obeyed his order. Draco’s smile widened as he opened the door and entered the room. Power. He deserved it. He had it. He loved it.

Inside the room, a smaller figure came out from the corner behind the armoire. Draco bowed politely to her. “Good evening, Miss Edgecombe.”

He saw her stiffen, then she bowed as well.

“Good evening, Mister Malfoy.” She sounded stilted, unable to hide her emotions. No wonder - she was but a lowly half-blood.

He knew she wasn’t having a good evening. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to talk to him. And yet she had to. Because he wanted it. Because he could make her do it.

He sat down on the desk in front of the room, looking down on the half-blood witch. She was standing there, jaw clenched, hands kneading her robes. Not her usual, quite daring robes, but plain, drab ones. Her lips moved, then she pressed them together again.

He was waiting, enjoying the moment. Enjoying his power over her. She wanted to speak, wanted to get this done with as soon as possible, so she could leave, flee. But she knew if she spoke without having been given leave by him, she’d pay for it.

“Did you do something with your hair? That’s a bold color,” he commented, apparently idly.

She flinched. He knew the Weasley twins had pranked her, they had been called to McGonagall’s office. And he knew she hadn’t been able to get rid of the spell, yet. She would probably have to visit St. Mungo’s. Fortunately for her, the school would cover the cost.

“I didn’t choose this, I was cursed,” she answered, stiffening.

He grinned. “It’s a rather benign curse then. In my circles, we’d not even call that a hex.”

That reminder of who he was, what he could do, sent her trembling. She was shaking, even, when he pulled out his wand and twirled it around his fingers. He’d have loved to draw this out for the entire evening, to do more to the witch, to teach her her place, but it was too much of a risk, here, under the nose of Dumbledore. And his absence would be noted soon.  “So… what did you find out?”

She swallowed, then began to report. “We trained dodging spells. And how to cast a Shield Charm. Point cast it.”

“That’s it?” He frowned. That didn’t sound likely. “You didn’t learn how to fight, just how to run away?”

“N-No. They said they want to train us to survive an attack, not to fight a war.”

She was shaking again. His ire was impressive. She didn’t seem to be lying though.

“So.” He paused. What was Potter up to? Why wasn’t he building an army? Maybe this was just a test, and he’d pick those who showed talent for the real, secret lessons?

“So. You’ll train hard and be among the best in those lessons, understood?” She was a 6th year, she had ample time to study and train, as long as she cut back on the fornicating.

Edgecombe nodded.

“Good. Do this, and your family’s debts will not be called in.”

That reminder of his power over her made her nod, again. For a moment he was tempted to keep her here a bit longer. She was a 6th year, experienced. He shook his head at the thought. He couldn’t take her as he wanted to anyway. And if he did, she’d have leverage over him. Not even Obliviate would help - everyone knew that if you felt sore and didn’t remember why, you went straight to a teacher. He wasn’t that good with the spell to leave no traces.

She was still standing there, too afraid of him to leave without permission. He gestured to the door, not bothering with the pretense of being polite anymore, and she left without a further word.

He watched her leave, frowning. He really wanted to get a muggle girl, right then. It galled him that he couldn’t.

Soon though.

*****

Hermione Granger, sitting in her and Harry’s room, working on spell crafting, frowned at her notes. The Protean Charm Tracking Spell was working - with Protean Charms. It would offer a nice way to track stolen but marked goods. Or circumvent some of the usual counter-measures against tracking charms. But it wouldn’t work with the Dark Mark. At least as far as she could tell, lacking a Dark Mark to study and experiment with. And she wouldn’t get one either. She imagined asking the Headmaster for her very own Death Eater to experiment on, and giggled at the face Dumbledore would probably make at hearing that. Right before he called her a dark witch. She stopped giggling.

She was doing Sympathetic Magic. Commonly associated with Voodoo. It wasn’t illegal, at least not in principle, but it had a bad reputation, since it was most infamous for controlling and cursing others using a piece of them as a focus. It wasn’t part of the actual Dark Arts, the Ministry’s opinion notwithstanding. But it wasn’t a subject taught at Hogwarts. She’d had to check the Black Family Library for tomes on the subject. And tracking was just one possible use for such magic. She had another use in mind.

One she’d have to study Harry’s scar for. See if the connection he shared with Voldemort would be enough to work magic through. But that wouldn’t be possible until she knew more about how such magic worked.

But nothing changed the fact that ultimately, she’d have to find a way to destroy a soul. It was the only way to get rid of all of the horcruxes Voldemort had made. And such an act certainly fell under the Dark Arts. To destroy a soul… wouldn’t it anger the gods? If they existed, and cared. Would it stain her soul?

She knew of only one way a soul could be destroyed: The Dementor’s kiss. Wizarding Britain had used it as a way to execute criminals for centuries. Dozens, hundreds of decent wizards and witches had taken part in the destruction of at least one soul in their lives. No one, nothing, had cursed them for it. The Wizengamot certainly wouldn’t risk their own souls, and they were the ones who ordered such executions.

So, at least the indirect destruction of a soul was safe. Had to be safe.

She could work with that. Had to work with that. For Harry.

*****

Keith Yennington observed the small cottage from afar. It looked like just any other house. Almost like a muggle one. But it was heavily warded, not quite on par with a mansion of an old family, but coming close. The DMLE didn’t skimp when it came to the safety of their employees, even if they were low-ranking ones like Timothy Brannigan.

The Death Eater rubbed his left forearm. The Dark Lord had been generous after his punishment, and had provided him with information from one of his spies. Brannigan would be able to provide Keith with the names of the two Aurors hunting him. Those responsible for his punishment! He still had nightmares!

Normally, Brannigan would be safe. His wards were strong enough to last until reinforcements arrived and he didn’t leave his house, other than taking the Floo to safe locations. But Brannigan had a weakness. A weakness Keith knew about.

He took a last look at the cottage and apparated away. If Brannigan stuck to his schedule, he’d call the whore soon.

Keith reappeared in a large and well-furnished room. A nude blonde witch was sitting on the big bed, nervously glancing at Hortensius Gimble, who kept his wand aimed at her. Others under Keith’s command would have indulged their urges. Not Hortensius though. He didn’t let the witch’s body distract him from his orders. Keith nodded to his man and sat down in the armchair in the corner, outside the the field of vision anyone making a floo call would have.

The whore - she called herself a courtesan, but they were all whores - was known as ‘Claire’. It certainly wasn’t her real name, but Keith didn’t care. All he cared about was that ‘Claire’ was Brannigan’s prefered whore, trusted enough to visit him at his home. He narrowed his eyes, then gestured at the witch. “Move!”

She jerked, then stood up, taking a few steps. “Move?” she asked, timidly.

He frowned. “Just walk around the room. Seductively.”

She complied, or tried to. He rolled his eyes. “Merlin’s balls, girl! I am not about to rape you. I simply need to see how you walk when you meet a client. Now walk like you mean it!”

The whore started to strut, still too tense. If this was the ‘Pixie’, Keith would have her punished. But for this, it would do. It wasn’t really needed either, more like a way to pass the time while they waited for Brannigan to call. It wasn’t as if he’d be wearing her body that long.

After a few minutes, the Floo connection lit up, finally. A nod from Keith had ‘Claire’ kneel in front of it, talking to ‘her Timothy’. He didn’t see any overt sign of her trying to warn the wizard.

“I’ll be right there, just let me fetch my new robe!”

“I can’t wait, cherie!” Brannigan said, then ended the call.

‘Claire’ stared at him, trembling, as Keith strode towards her, pulling off his own robes and undergarments with a flick of his wand. Hortensius handed him a vial, and a hair. A sip later Keith was wearing the whore’s body.

While ‘Claire’ stared at him, he slipped the robe he had brought with him on. He had taken it from one of the girls at the ‘Pixie’. A flick of his wand had it resized to his new curves. It would do. He glanced at Hortensius, who was looking him over. “Anything out of place?” Keith asked him, noticing how his voice had changed too.

The other wizard shook his head. Keith nodded to him, then stepped to the floo. “Brannigan’s Bachelor Pad!”

He stepped out of the floo into Branigan’s living room. The wizard was stepping towards him with open arms, but Keith stopped him before he could hug his temporary body. “Look at my new robe!”

Brannigan did, and Keith turned around himself, making sure they were alone.

“I’ve got another surprise for you!” he announced, taking out his wand.

“Oh!” Brannigan’s eyes went wide. “Did you get a new…”

Keith cut him off with a stunner and the man dropped like a bag of galleons. No Auror material, that one. He went back to the Floo connection and called Hortensius. The Death Eater was still searching the man when Hortensius and the nude witch arrived. She saw Brannigan and at once opened her mouth.

Keith was faster. “Keep your mouth shut! He’s just stunned.”

He didn’t find anything dangerous on Brannigan’s body, but stripped him nude anyway before binding him with a spell and waking him up.

“Wha…“ Brannigan stopped whatever he had been about to say when he spotted two ‘Claires’ in his living room, and a man he didn’t know. “Polyjuice?”

He wasn’t as much of a fool as he looked, then, Keith thought. “Exactly.” He smiled at the man, holding up another vial. “Now open wide up, we have a few questions to ask you.”

Brannigan complied. He was either a coward, or smart enough to realise that he couldn’t avoid it anyway. Not bad qualities for a Ministry employee. If he was pragmatic enough he might keep his position, once the Dark Lord had taken over.

The interrogation was a quick and complete success - his master’s spy had done well. Keith now had the names of his prey: Kenneth Fenbrick and Bertha Limmington. Veteran Aurors both.

“Administer the antidote!”

While Hortensius made Brannigan drink another vial, Keith obliviated the whore. “You’ve just arrived, and your ‘new dress’ was a nothing more than few drops of perfume. Timothy loved the surprise.” Another spell took care of Brannigan. Keith and Hortensius left the cottage before the spells wore off.

Back in the whore’s flat, Keith scoffed. “Another 45 minutes to spend in this body…” and sat down in the chair again. He hated waiting. Hortensius didn’t comment. He was Keith’s best wizard, after all.

*****

“It’s already as bad as during the last war,” Sirius Black stated as he and his family walked through Hogsmeade. His extended family, to be precise - Remus, Valérie, Chantal, Eugénie and Laure, and Harry, Hermione and their friends. Nymphadora was around as well, providing additional security in various forms.

“What do you mean, Sirius?” Harry asked, looking around. Slightly behind him, Hermione frowned, following his example.

“The lack of students. Usually, more than half of Hogwarts is in the village on a Hogsmeade weekend. Now? Unless most of them are hiding in the private rooms in Madam Puddyfoot’s Teashop, then not even a quarter of the students are in the village. Maybe even closer to a tenth.” He made a sweeping gesture.

“There are private rooms in Madam Puddyfoot’s?” Luna’s eyes lit up.

Sirius nodded. “Yes. For a fee, you can rent a room there. There are a number of…” he trailed off as he caught Remus’s glare. “Well, they are for 6th years and older students.”

“Bah!” Luna frowned. “That’s unfair!”

Valérie giggled, and Sirius had a feeling she wanted to pat the blonde’s head. The four Veela had taken a shine to the perky if quirky girl, despite, or maybe because, of all the questions she had posed them about the ‘secrets of the Veela’.

“Isn’t that why we’re out here? To serve as an example, to assure people that it’s safe?” Ron asked.

“If we are, it doesn’t seem to be working. We seem to be scaring them away more than reassuring them,” Harry commented, nodding towards the people watching them from a distance.

“Well, letting everyone crowd us would be too dangerous for you and your friends. You are a personal enemy of the Dark Lord, after all,” Sirius explained. “So, we do keep them at a distance. For their own safety as well as ours.”

“That seems to defeat the purpose of the visit,” Hermione remarked.

“It’s mostly for the press, not for the people in the village,” Luna said. “We can write up how Harry Potter and all his friends and family visited Hogsmeade for a relaxing afternoon in Madam Puddyfoot’s private rooms! We don’t have to mention that we’re more resembling an armed patrol than a family outing.”

Sirius chuckled while Hermione and Harry groaned. “You’re right, Luna. It’s mostly a morale booster for the rest of the country. Hopefully, people will take heart, and visit Hogsmeade again - it is one of the safest places in Britain. Even if the population seems not to know that.” He shook his head. Those cursed fools, shaking in their robes from irrational fear. “Look at the houses - all closely built together. Old houses, with old wards. Not quite on the level of Grimmauld Place, but strong. And since it’s the only pure wizard village in all of Britain, it has a permanent Auror presence, and it’s right next to Hogwarts, where Dumbledore resides. They are among the safest people in Britain. And yet, a few incidents on the streets have all of them cowed, hiding even. The shops must be suffering, those that can’t offer Owl Orders at least.”

“Another reason to visit Madam Puddyfoot’s!” Luna piped up. The glances and even glares she received didn’t faze her at all.

“The Dark Lord must have planned that. One attack, outside a pub, and the village economy takes a massive hit.” Hermione pursed her lips. “We should do something about this.”

“We are. Luna’s not joking. The Daily Prophet will publish an article, and I assume the Quibbler will do so too,” Remus answered the muggleborn witch. Sirius refrained from speculating what exactly the Quibbler would publish, but he was fairly certain it would be amusing.

“We should do a family outing in the muggle world,” Valérie stated as they made their way towards Honeydukes. “It’s far more relaxing.”

“Ah… most of the family is a bit too young to appreciate the kind of outings you are talking about,” Remus started to explain.

“That could be handled with a few fake IDs,” Hermione said.

Remus stared at the witch while Sirius chuckled. She defended herself. “We wouldn’t visit the strip clubs, of course. But it would be nice to relax at a place not filled with frightened people and guards.”

Sirius looked at the rest of the students. Not everyone seemed as enthusiastic as Hermione, who probably was well aware that she could be far more open with her affection for Harry in the muggle world, but no one seemed actually opposed to the idea. “I’ll see what I can arrange.” He ignored the glare from Remus; his friend should know that Sirius didn’t consider the school rules limiting the Hogsmeade weekend to actual Hogsmeade as anything more than a weak guideline for first years who were not yet officially allowed to leave Hogwarts at all.

After all, once you were allowed to visit Hogsmeade, its attraction diminished by quite a lot.

“Whee! An expedition!” Luna cheered.

Sirius suddenly wasn’t certain that this had been a good idea.

*****

“Welcome, Amelia, Have a seat.” Albus Dumbledore smiled at the Head of the DMLE. “To what or whom do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

The witch sat down. “To the fact that your office is probably the best protected room in Britain, and I don’t want to risk getting eavesdropped on.”

Albus nodded.

“I assume you have heard from your brother about the events in Knockturn Alley? The ‘Pleasing Pixie’?” Amelia asked.

“Indeed. A venue operated and probably owned by Voldemort’s followers,” the Headmaster confirmed.

“More like a base. He’s shuffling kidnapped foreign muggles through it. Sacrifices for rituals and Dementors, or so we assume,” she stated with a grim expression.

“That is a likely, if horrible explanation.” Sadly, not everyone would consider stopping such as a priority.

“So, closing it down has a high priority. But I suspect there are spies in the Ministry, and such an operation could easily end in a catastrophe, if any information was leaked prematurely,” Amelia said. “I’ve picked out a group of my most trusted Aurors and Hit-Wizards,” Amelia continued.

He nodded, not pointing out that a number of his friends were among her most trusted Aurors. That would have been a faux pas. “And you worry about Voldemort coming to the rescue of his men, once battle is joined,” Albus saidd. That was the most likely explanation for the delay: The fear of running into an ambush by Voldemort himself. That could not just cost Amelia her best wands, but would also be a terrible blow to the morale of the Ministry.

“Yes.” Amelia didn’t like to admit it, of course. She was a proud and capable witch.

“I will of course do my utmost to deal with him, should he arrive. Though should my presence be confirmed, he might use the opportunity to strike at another location.” And yet, if he joined the fight from the start, it would be over far more quickly, and with less losses.

“That’s all we need. We can handle his men, even his best Death Eaters. But we can’t handle the Dark Lord. Not least because people panic as soon as he shows up.” She sneered.

“Voldemort is a formidable foe, Amelia. People panic because they know he can kill them easily,” Albus stated, gently even.

“People panic at the mere rumor of his presence. Fear of him and the mistakes it causes probably kill more of us than any one of his most powerful followers. It’s a very good thing he never wore the mask his followers wear, or any Death Eater would be seen as the Dark Lord,” Amelia scoffed.

“As long as they cannot even speak his name, I fear there is not much we can do about that.” Albus spread his hands. “Though I think that if Voldemort would try to use the tactic you mentioned, it would not work for too long, and might even diminish the fear of him some, if people mistaken for him would be seen fleeing.”

“Well, we can do something about his followers. The more we reduce their number, the more we hound the Death Eaters, the weaker the influence of the Dark Lord, Voldemort, grows. We’ll strike tonight, at nine.” She stood up.

“I will be there.” Albus nodded at her.

*****

Keith Yennington had just settled in with his favorite drink at his usual tale on the second floor of the ‘Pleasing Pixie’, gazing down at the main room, when the wards of the building came under attack. “Matt, Killian, check who’s trying to crack the wards!” he shouted down. It could be the ‘old crowd’ of Knockturn Alley, but his spies hadn’t told him of any such plans, and he doubted they could prepare a coordinated attack without at least rumours getting to him. Hortensius at his side had his wand out already.

Before the two men he had sent to check on the street reached the door, it and most of the windows blew open, showering the room with glass and wood. Only the fact that he habitually sat where he couldn’t be seen from the outside saved him from injury. Others were not as lucky. Pained screams and yells rose from the main room. Keith realised to his horror that the wards had been broken so quickly that the structures they had been anchored to had been destroyed as well. There were only two men in Britain capable of such a feat, he knew, and the Dark Lord wouldn’t attack his own. Not like this.

He had to… but if he was wrong, the punishment… no, there was no other possibility! He pressed his wand tip into his dark mark, hissing at the pain this caused, then pulled out a small mirror. “Milord!” he spoke quickly, “The ‘Pixie’ is under attack by Dumbledore himself!”

The mirror lit up and the Dark Lord’s response was prompt: “Send your men into the fray. Stall him. Take hostages. Do what you can to keep him occupied for as long as possible, then escape yourself!”

Keith stammered “Y-yes, milord!” but the mirror had gone dark already. The Dark Lord wouldn’t come to his aid. It made sense, of course - what use was a base that had been uncovered? Sooner or later it would fall, unless the Dark Lord managed to vanquish all of the Ministry’s forces. And Dumbledore. And yet… this was Keith’s fiefdom, so to speak. He had taken it, built it up, made it his. To abandon it galled him. But he had no choice.

“Wands out, they’ll be coming at us! Cover the windows! Matt! Grab a few muggles and mudbloods as hostages!” Keith shouted down, and sent a spell through the remains of a window himself. Killian didn’t look like he’d be able to do anything other than bleed for a while.

His men, not quite handpicked, but a cut above the usual scum found in the Alley, reacted. Spells flew from their wands, through the holes in the front wall. It was a good thing he had gathered enough to go after Fenbrick and Limmington. Vicious fighters, they’d stall Dumbledore’s forces. With or without Keith’s further direction.

He rushed to the stairs, Hortensius on his heels. Matt was there, dragging a mudblood out of the private rooms. “Shout that we have hostages! We’ll get more!” Keith yelled, passing the thug. Matt nodded, not suspecting anything, and started down the stairs to the main room. Keith and Hortensius entered the next room. His man stunned the screaming young wizard there while Keith blew a hole into the floor. It wouldn’t do to let the curse fodder defending the brothel against the Aurors see their leader flee.

A drop later the two were on the ground floor, and headed to the basement, the young man floating after them - a hostage might be useful. Just as they were climbing down the stairs to the lower basement level, where the sewer access was located, the entire building shook, and the screaming from above grew in volume. Dumbledore must have entered the fray personally.

Keith’s robe prevented the dust shaken loose from the ceiling from touching him, but the hands he had used to steady himself on the narrow stairs were covered with it, leaving a trail of dirt on the door when he pushed open. No matter - they were entering the sewers anyway.

“Seal the door behind us!” he yelled to Hortensius, then pointed his wand at a particular stain on the wall next to him and muttered: “Incendio”.

Up front, the sewer tunnels lit up with dozens of fires as the curses laid down there went off. Screams told him there had been enemies ahead. Smiling cruelly, he led Hortensius down a side tunnel, past the smoking remains of two robed figures. One of them was still moving, but a quick Piercing Curse to the head ended that.

Soon they’d be past the anti-apparition wards.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort gazed at the ruins of what had been the ancestral house of the Cowden family. With Dumbledore engaged in Knockturn Alley, it had been ripe for the picking - wards weak enough for him to be taken down quickly, and filled with a family and their retainers that had escaped his wrath once before, in the First War. Back then the wards had withstood him long enough for Dumbledore and Aurors to arrive, but the replacement wards put up since that day had not been nearly as strong.

Bella was torturing a mudblood, her laughter drowned out by the girl’s screams. Rookwood and Travers had returned from plundering the family’s coffers. The Lestrange brothers were letting Fiendfyre loose all over the building. That might take care of those still hiding in the burning house. It didn’t matter, really - they had achieved what they had come for.

Time was running short. Yennington wouldn’t be able to stall Dumbledore for long. It wasn’t even certain the Death Eater would manage to escape, but the man had proven to be crafty. Even if his real identity was now known to the enemy, he could take over as Greenbrand, and continue his good work. And if he failed to escape… well, one Death Eater and a few thugs were a small price to pay for wiping out a prominent family that had opposed him for decades.

“Bella.”

The dark witch stopped at once, and turned towards him. “Master?”

“We need to leave.”

A Killing Curse ended the mudblood’s suffering, and his most loyal Death Eater apparated away. A glance to the other Death Eaters prompted them to follow her example. The Dark Lord looked at the burning ruins once more, smiling. This would show those who had lived through the First War that no one escaped his wrath.

He raised his wand to the sky.

“Mordsmordre!”

*****


	29. Traps

**Chapter 29: Traps**

The Dark Lord Voldemort appeared in what was serving as his throne room, wand still in hand. The assembled Death Eaters, all of whom had been on the raid against the Cowden family, fell to their knees.

“A wonderful strike against the enemy, Master!” Bellatrix exclaimed, her face showing the same elation as her voice.

Most of the others shared her expression, the masks they had worn during the battle already gone. Only one stood there with his mask still covering his face.

“You’ve done well, my faithful,” the Dark Lord stated, bidding them to stand up with a small gesture. “We’ve removed a thorn in our side. The Ministry and Dumbledore struck at what was barely more than a decoy, filled with rabble, while we removed an entire blood traitor family from their ranks, and have sown doubt and fear in many hearts.”

The masked wizard stiffened, but didn’t voice any objection. He seemed to have learned his lesson. Most of it, anyway.

“And yet your identity has been compromised, Keith.”

The Death Eater bowed his head, then removed his mask. He was a sharp one. The man also ignored the looks he got from the others in the room, part curious, part scornful.

“You’ll not be able to use your own name again, not until we have crushed our enemies and have taken our rightful place as Britain’s rulers. But like everyone else, you will have your own tasks and duties to perform until then.” Voldemort raised his voice again. “This was just the first blow! We will strike again and again, until our enemies weak resolve crumbles entirely, and they are scattered before our might!”

His faithful cheered loudly, but Voldemort took note of who was not quite as caught up in the heat of the moment as everyone else. He had need of those who saw beyond the last battle, far more than of those who only longed for carnage and revenge. Rookwood. Dolohov. Yennington. And of course Bellatrix. His Bella.

Those who understood without having to be told that tonight had been an exception. That the Cowdens’ wards had been far weaker than any other old family’s. If he was tied up in taking down old wards, especially those originally created by blood sacrifices, when Dumbledore or a large enough force arrived, the consequences would be dire. He didn’t doubt that the old man had plans for that, and other ambushes and traps.

Voldemort had fallen victim to such a trap once before. He didn’t plan to repeat that mistake.

No, he was taking steps to ensure his next encounter with the Boy-Who-Lived would end quite differently.

*****

An hour later, in his private room, the Dark Lord ran a cleaning charm over himself before summoning his robes onto his body. Bella was sprawled out on his bed, watching him with the satisfied and devoted smile he was so familiar with. The dark witch was nude, tempting him to return to the bed, to her. He smirked. That was a game he never tired of.

He walked over, and her face lit up in a sultry smile as she moved, reaching out with her arms to pull him to her. When he instead he gripped her arm, and pressed his wand into the Dark Mark, once, her smile shifted to a pout.

Grinning, he turned away, facing the door. On the bed, Bella cast a cleaning and styling charm herself, then he saw her robe, dropped on the floor right after they had entered the room an hour ago, fly towards her. As expected - she only remained nude and on his bed when he was summoning her husband and her brother in law. The Dark Lord never tired of watching that taunting game either.

Rookwood arrived within five minutes. Contrary to Voldemort and Bellatrix, he hadn’t bothered to groom himself, other than what the charms on his robes did automatically. The Dark Lord didn’t know if the man really didn’t care about his appearance past the most basic social standards, or simply carefully cultivated his image as a wizard too devoted to the study of the Dark Arts to bother with such spells. It didn’t matter.

“Augustus.” He nodded his head at the wizard, who bowed in return. “I trust you have recovered the memories you hid before your arrest.”

“Yes, Master.” Rookwood smiled widely.

Unspeakables who broke the law - or rather, Unspeakables who broke the law so seriously that they were sentenced to Azkaban - routinely had all their knowledge of the Department of Mysteries obliviated. Rookwood had found that out during the first war, and had given a copy of his memories to the Dark Lord, and then had had the memory of that precaution obliviated. A precaution proven to be wise in hindsight.

“Good. I require the prophecy about myself and Harry Potter.” He stared at the wizard.

Rookwood nodded. Contrary to Bellatrix, he didn’t argue that the prophecy had been fulfilled in Godric’s Hollow, or that the boy could be handled by Voldemort’s faithful. The Dark Lord didn’t know if that was because the wizard didn’t share those views, or because he longed to show up his former colleagues.

“Can you overcome the prophecies’ defenses?” Voldemort asked while he stared straight into the man’s eyes. This was too important to trust to a braggart.

“Yes, Master. The charms are strong, but not foolproof,” Augustus started to explain. “It will be easy to work through the loopholes left so the orbs can be moved should a situation arise that requires such an action. And my former colleagues would never really lock themselves out of accessing any kind of knowledge stored in the department.”

The Dark Lord would have said that no magic was foolproof, that everything could be countered, if one just worked hard enough on it, but his follower had sufficient reasons to be confident that he could achieve his task, and that was all that counted. “Good. You may call upon any of the faithful for help, other than those already set on other tasks, but if your intrusion requires a sacrifice, I will choose it.”

“Of course, Master.”

Augustus bowed, but for a moment, the hint of a frown was visible on his face. Voldemort almost smirked - of course the man wouldn’t just hold grudges against his former co-workers, but also against some of his current colleagues.

The Dark Lord nodded, dismissing the former Unspeakable. He didn’t bother telling the man to be careful, not to rush things, but also not to tarry. Wizards prone to such faults didn’t become Unspeakables in the first place.

After the man had left, Voldemort turned back to Bellatrix. Yennington had yet to receive his new tasks, and his new identity - Greenbrand was compromised as well, sadly - so he could continue his work recruiting curse fodder and making inroads in Knockturn Alley.

But when he saw Bella lying there, nude again, one slender finger trailing over her chest, he decided to reschedule that meeting until the next day. A flick of his finger sent his own robe floating to his chair as he joined his Bella in his bed.

*****

Pansy Parkinson rubbed her aching rump. Those stinging hexes hurt. A numbing spell would help, but then she might be seen as cheating, and that would be bad. Not only would the instructors switch targets and spells - and who would have thought the quiet and always polite Professor Lupin had such a nasty streak? - but Ron Weasley would think she was cheating as well. And that would ruin her plans.

Eager, honest, friendly. That was how she had to appear. After five years of hanging with Draco, the Gryffindors didn’t trust her at all. Her public breakup had helped her image with the house of the often suicidally brave some, but she was still on thin ice. Although she thought the redhead working as a teaching assistant was coming around, if very slowly. At least if she was correctly judging the dark glares his Ravenclaw girlfriend was sending towards her.

Like now. She smiled at the fuming, jealous girl, then raised her hand. “Mister Weasley? Could you show me how to dodge and cast a shield at the same time, again?”

The Gryffindor hesitated but for a second, then walked over to her. “We’re switching soon to another lesson.”

“Even more of a reason to learn this right,” Pansy chirped. The slight frown on his face told her she was perhaps overdoing it a bit - Weasley had turned out to be smarter than she had thought. Pureblood from a very fertile family, best friend of the Boy-Who-Lived, famous as a Basilisk Slayer, and smarter than he looked. He was quite the catch. If she managed to become his girlfriend, that would be a coup. And Draco would be foaming at the mouth. That made her remember how her ex-boyfriend had changed last year, and she winced.

“Is something wrong?” Weasley asked, raising his eyebrows.

“No, no. I was just thinking about Draco’s reaction to me learning from you,” Pansy explained - truthfully, even if her words were misleading as well. “It reminded me that learning how to dodge curses is quite important.”

“Ah.” The redheaded wizard nodded in understanding, and went on to show her a few ways to jump and roll to her feet again. Pansy paid great attention to how he moved, and how his enchanted robe moved. He really had a nice body. Hopefully he’d be showing more of it during their 6th year. His brothers had, at least the twins. If he shared their build...

Pansy used the occasion to fail the first few attempts. Weasley cushioned her fall, as planned, with a few quick spells, and she thanked him earnestly.

The Slytherin witch thought that his smile was less forcedly polite when Potter called for a break before the next part of the lessons. A hidden glance at Patil confirmed it: she was making progress.

*****

Ron Weasley sat down on a conjured seat next to his girlfriend when Harry started the lesson about mind control spells, and their tells. He felt a bit winded - teaching was strenuous, even if he was just assisting the others. He had to keep his eyes open, watch out for mistakes, and more importantly, for Slytherins trying to curse others under the guise of training. And it seemed half the class needed help with the most basic instructions. But he could relax now, while Harry taught the group. Ron’s friend was using Hermione’s notes, of course, but distilling it down to the most useful parts. The Gryffindor glanced at the muggleborn witch sitting next to the small stage and caught her slight frown when she noticed yet another deviation from her script.

He smiled, slightly shaking his head. His best female friend knew Harry, knew what he was doing, and still felt irked that her text wasn’t being followed to the letter. Well, she could copy it and pass it out as cheat sheets. The Ravenclaws would take enough for their whole tower.

Speaking of Ravenclaws… he smiled at Padma, then blinked when he caught her glare. “Is something wrong?” he whispered.

Padma looked away, seemingly focusing on Harry, even though she had heard that lesson before. “Nothing.”

He sighed. He had just spent an hour teaching a bunch of witches - too many of them Slytherins! - how to dodge and shield at the same time. He didn’t need this. “Come on, tell me! Did anyone hex you?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong then? You did well, I saw it. Better than most.” It was true - Padma hadn’t needed any help. Granted, she had had more such lessons, but still, it was a respectable showing.

She briefly smiled, then scowled. “Maybe I should have asked for help.”

“Well, I don’t think you needed help, but we can train after this. Just you and me.” He reached out and put his arm around her shoulder, then whispered into her ear: “And we don’t have to limit ourselves to Hermione’s lesson plan…”

He felt the witch lean into his side, sighing - which caused her chest to move in interesting ways. “Parkinson was flirting with you for the entire lesson.”

He chuckled. “She’s trying to pull one over on me, but I’m not going to be fooled by her. Don’t worry. She has about as many chances with me as Greengrass has with Harry.” He nudged her and pointed at the Slytherin witch, who had changed out of her school robes into robes a 6th year might think twice before wearing. And Harry still wasn’t paying any attention to the blonde snake, or to her slightly less risqué dressed friend. Well, any attention past what was required by politeness.

Strangely, Padma didn’t seem to find this as reassuring or funny as Ron. The Indian witch scowled even more. “I bet you that half the witches will copy that outfit for the next lesson. Especially Parkinson.”

“Oh.” Ron hadn’t thought of that. A humourless chuckle escaped him. If anyone had told him a few months ago he’d prefer witches to show less skin in his presence, he’d have laughed out loud. He glanced over at Hermione. Maybe that was the real reason for the witch’s bad mood. But if it was, the next lesson would be ‘interesting’. Like juggling fiendfyre.

“Bugger.”

*****

“Remarkable.”

Hermione Granger, sitting next to Harry Potter, smiled proudly at hearing the praise from Dumbledore. Her new ‘Protean Charm Tracking Charm’ obviously had impressed even the Headmaster. Harry held her hand, smiling as well.

“The restriction to Protean Charms, while seeming to limit the spell, allows it to evade most of the ways to detect a standard tracking charm. Ingenious, Miss Granger.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Headmaster.”

“I trust you have thought about possible applications for this spell already.” The old wizard rolled up the parchment detailing the wand movements, and the brief description of the effect and its limits she had prepared, before duplicating it a few times with a wave of his wand.

“Yes, sir. It can be used to mark items the Dark Lord might want to steal, in order to track them,” Harry answered. “It can also be cast on small, harmless looking things a suspect might be tricked into picking up. Like coins. And if everyone on our side is carrying a few marked objects, they can be tracked and rescued, should they be taken prisoner.”

Hermione didn’t think the likelihood of the Death Eaters taking many prisoner was that high, but they did kidnap people - mostly civilians though. Easy targets. It certainly wouldn’t hurt though. Unles the Dark Lord managed to track the items.

“And without knowing the exact formula used for the charm to mark the item, it’s not possible to track it. A good safety measure,” the Headmaster continued. “Not perfect though, so it should be used sparingly I think.”

A frustrating limit, Hermione would call it - her real goal was, after all, to find a way to track the Dark Marks. And this spell wouldn’t allow that, not without having unraveled their mysteries. But it would be useful. She had known that, Harry and Ron had agreed, and Dumbledore had just confirmed it. And knowing she was helping to fight Voldemort, knowing she was making a difference, felt good.

“I am very impressed, Miss Granger. I would award you extra credit and house points, but that might compromise the secrecy needed to use your invention,” the old wizard said, while smiling apologetically.

“I understand, Headmaster,” she answered. She did, but she didn’t like it. It was another achievement of hers that would not be appreciated or even known as it should be.

Harry squeezed her hand. He knew how she felt.

“Rest assured though that once this conflict is over, your brilliant invention will be revealed, and…” Dumbledore suddenly stopped and pulled out a small mirror from his robe. His smile vanished and he looked at them with a very serious expression. “I have to leave at once. We will have to continue our discussion another time.”

When he didn’t wait for her and Harry to leave before he walked to the floo, Hermione knew something important had happened. That she didn’t know what was happening, didn’t even know where the Headmaster had traveled to, seeing as the private Floo connection had been under a privacy charm, was even more vexing than her invention remaining secret.

She glanced at Harry, who slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “He’ll tell us later, I guess,” he stated. “But we should leave now.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “There’s no point in staying.” It wasn’t as if they could peruse the books in the office, they’d be protected even in the Headmaster’s absence. She didn’t know what made her add, other than it was a delightfully naughty fantasy she had had for some time: “Unless you want to be able to tell your godfather that we made out on the Headmaster’s desk.”

Harry gaped at her for a second, then he smiled widely. Before she could blink, he had pushed her back towards the desk, then kissed her. No spell threw them out, not even when she sat down on the desk.

*****

Albus Dumbledore’s expression when he left the Floo connection in the Ministry’s atrium was enough for the handful of Aurors and Hit-Wizards who were arriving at the same time to scatter. This was fine by him - he was headed straight to the lift to the Department of Mysteries.

“Albus!”

Amelia Bones’s call made him look at the head of the DMLE, who was also just leaving the Floo connection, but the old wizard didn’t stop or shorten his stride.

“What’s going on? Who sounded the alarm?”

“There’s possible trouble in the Department of Mysteries. I am lending a hand.“

He heard her curse and order her witches and wizards to take up positions in the atrium while he entered the lift. If what he feared had come to pass, they might stop whoever was responsible from leaving - but if that intruder managed to defeat Albus, the chances of the DMLE’s finest wouldn’t be good. They’d still do their best, of course.

Saul Croaker had called him a minute ago, alerting him that the trap guarding the entrance to the Hall of Prophecies had been triggered. If the Dark Lord had managed to break into the Department, if he had brought his Death Eaters along…

The wards at the door still held though. Of course, they could have been bypassed, but without any trace of manipulation? He entered, wand ready and Shield Charm up, a few conjured slabs of marble floating in front of him. Three hooded figures were waiting for him.

“Hello Albus,” one of them greeted him. His robe made his voice as unrecognizable as his face, but Albus knew that charm, and knew how it worked. This was Saul.

“Unspeakable,” he nodded at his friend. With others present, no names would be used. “What is the situation?”

“The alarms on the entrance to the Hall of Prophecies were triggered five minutes ago. You were informed as soon as possible, and the hallways were sealed up. We’re missing two of our co-workers,” Saul said as they made their way to the hall. Behind them the entrance they had taken was sealed as well. If anyone was still around they would not escape, not without breaking through some of the strongest wards in Britain.

They found the first missing Unspeakable in the hallway. Dead, with maggots feasting on the rotting body. Saul stopped a second, either identifying the body, or studying the curse. With Saul, one could not be certain.

“No sign of a struggle. She was surprised.” Saul retook his place at Albus side.

“That’s not one of his typical spells,” the Headmaster explained. There was no need to explain who ‘he’ was.

“The Killing Curse is more his style,” Saul agreed.

“Only if its use makes sense,” Albus qualified the statement.

The second missing Unspeakable was near the end of the hallway. He or she had put up a fight. The walls, the floor and the ceiling were still torn up, the enchantments on them slowly working to overcome the effects of the spells that had been slung back and forth. The corpse was missing most of its chest.

“Heartbuster,” Saul said, naming a curse that literally made the target’s heart explode. It was slower and more difficult to cast than a Blasting Curse, but while a Shield Charm would stop it, most of the enchantments on a robe would be bypassed. Most, but not all. Another sign that this was not Voldemort’s wandwork.

Then they reached the entrance itself - and another corpse wearing an Unspeakable’s robe. It was on the ground, almost touching the rune-covered door. Thin, atrophied hands and wrists were visible, the rest was still hidden by the enchanted garment.

Saul cast a spell on the robe, causing it to briefly flicker, and grow slightly. A flick of his wand then drew the hood back, revealing a head that had lost all hair and was barely more than a skull covered by leathery skin, with shriveled, blind eyes staring at them.

“The syphoning trap has worked as expected.”

Saul sounded pleased and proud. Despite the fact that the lethal trap going off meant all the nonlethal ones meant to capture an intruder had already been bypassed or defused.

“Augustus Rookwood,” Albus recognized the man, despite the horrible effect of Saul’s invention. Grindelwald’s prisoners had looked like that, but they had been alive still. Some had been friends of his.

“What?” Saul bent down, running his wand over the corpse, then stood up and summoned its wand, leaving it floating in front of him. “Merlin’s grimoire, you’re right! That’s his wand.” He turned to Dumbledore. “But how is that possible? He was obliviated of all his knowledge of the Department right after his sentence. He should not have been able to pass for a member of the Department, much less manage to get through the entrance.”

“He might have had help,” the Headmaster said in a grim voice. If there was another traitor in the Department…

“But if he had help, why wasn’t the body vanished? His presence would point us in that direction, and any of my colleagues would have known that.” Saul rubbed his concealed chin.

“Nevertheless, you have to investigate this possibility. And another, equally disturbing: That Voldemort found a way to undo Obliviations.”

Saul hissed at that thought. “If he found a way to undo an Obliviation, after ten years have passed and the mind has changed so much…”

“There are other possible explanations, I am certain of that. But we cannot overlook the more disturbing ones either,” the old wizard said, smiling faintly.

“If I had known how much trouble this would cause, I’d have handed the prophecy over to the Dark Lord. This will set my research back by ages!” Saul complained, jokingly. At least Albus hoped his friend was joking.

A quick investigation of the site didn’t reveal anything else. There was no sign of another intruder or a traitor. Which didn’t prove there hadn’t been one. No one was found in the other sealed areas of the department either. The Unspeakables would conduct a more thorough investigation, of course, but Albus couldn’t stay much longer. If this was a feint from the Dark Lord...

“I will inform Amelia of this,” the Headmaster finally said, sighing.

“I don’t envy you.” Saul chuckled - both knew how stubborn the witch could be. “She’ll be even unhappier than usual, after having had to play doorguard.”

Albus sighed again.

*****

As expected, Amelia Bones was not in a good mood. At least she didn’t start her interrogation until they both had reached the privacy of her office “Albus, what’s going on in the bowels of the Ministry? The alarm was sounded, but nobody or nothing was seen outside the Department of Mysteries.”

“Augustus Rookwood tried to break into his old workplace. He did not survive the attempt. Security measures had been taken in expectation of such an event and proved to be effective, if lethal,” Albus explained.

“One of the escaped prisoners dead… I’ll need the corpse. We can deduce a lot about where he was from his state!” She blinked. “Unless the ‘security measures’ used on him were a bit too violent.”

“I am quite certain the Unspeakables will do what they can to help you,” Albus answered. He wouldn’t reveal the exact nature of the cause of Rookwood’s death, lest someone leaked it, and the Dark Lord could create a counter - or copy it.

Amelia huffed. “So, we deployed for nothing, but the Dark Lord lost one of his best wizards. Quite a good trade, right?”

She was fishing, Albus knew. “He didn’t reach his objective.”

The partial answer didn’t mollify the witch much, but she nodded at least. “And I assume the Unspeakables will deliver the results of their investigation when they are ready, and you cannot give an estimate of when that will be?”

Albus just smiled ruefully. It didn’t garner much sympathy, but reminded her that he, too, had to deal with the most eccentric and secretive department of the Ministry. “Speaking of results… did the raid on the ‘Pleasing Pixie’ garner any leads to other bases of the Dark Lord, or clues about his plans?”

Amelia hesitated for a moment, probably tempted to act as secretive as Saul and Albus, but her professionalism won out over her pride. “Sadly, not much. We’ve found a few more names of possible recruits, but they do not look like inner circle material at all. Keith Yennington was the one we wanted, and he and his bodyguard escaped. Finnegan Greenbrand was the brothel owner, but he has only been around sporadically according to the staff we questioned, and his home has been deserted for months.” She used her wand to summon a bottle of Firewhiskey from her desk, as well as two glasses. The bottle filled the two floating glasses while she continued. “We have the names of a number of his clients from the prisoners and the prostitutes there. Those who used the kidnapped muggles. They might have ties to the Dark Lord, or at least share his views.” Her thin-lipped smile promised trouble for those men and women no matter what.

“Did you find out where the muggles came from?” Albus asked in a mild voice despite his strong feelings on the matter.

“Africa, mostly, and the Balkans. Some have been obliviated of any knowledge, others… have been broken. We’re looking for a way to get them back to their world, their families, if they have any left, but they’ll need a lot of help still.” Amelia raised her glass, then downed the drink.

Albus followed her example. “Two areas where muggles in large numbers can go missing without anyone taking much notice. And two areas where our reach is somewhat limited.”

“Yes. The Ottomans claim to reign over Magical Northern Africa, but their control is tenuous at best, and fictional in places. And the Balkans…” Amelia trailed off, wincing.

Albus nodded. He was familiar with that area. “I have a few contacts still, dating back to the Intervention. I will ask them to look into stopping those kidnappings.” He didn’t have to add that there was not much of a chance this would help.

“I’ll set a few of my Aurors on tracking down and infiltrating the muggle traffickers. And we’ll have to work on stomping out the kind of businesses that deal in those ‘goods’.” Amelia cleaned the glasses with a twist of her wand, then sent them and the bottle back to where she had summoned them from. She snorted. “The other scum in the Alley might even help with that, as long as it gets rid of the competition.”

“Some pressure on them to not stoop as low as the Dark Lord might improve their practises as well,” the Headmaster remarked. Amelia snorted again, but didn’t contradict him.

Maybe some good would come of this, but despite his own words, Albus didn’t think so.

*****

Usually, Harry Potter wasn’t that comfortable or happy when doing his prefect patrols. Having Hermione walking behind him while he was walking with a female prefect at his side felt wrong. It was one thing to keep up appearances in public, surrounded by other students, it was another when doing so while patrolling the dark, empty hallways of Hogwarts at night in a group of three. Hermione should have been at his side, not behind him. She should have been the other Gryffindor prefect, not Parvati Patil. The whole situation just demonstrated how unfairly muggleborns were treated.

Today though things felt different. Harry couldn’t help smiling when he remembered them snogging on the Headmaster’s desk. Hermione’s proposal probably hadn’t been serious; she wasn’t usually that daring. But it had been the perfect opportunity to do something wild, something far different from the facade of proper conduct Hermione and he were forced into. He loved to see Hermione showing her mischievous side like this. Especially like this - pranking was nice, but snogging beat it.

That it was also something his godfather hadn’t managed was just the icing on the cake. Harry was looking forward to casually mentioning what he had done the next time Sirius told stories about his 6th year exploits, and tried to edge him into similar antics.

He glanced back to Hermione while Susan Bones checked a particularly dark corner with a Wand-Lighting Charm. She looked happier too. The two exchanged smiles, less wistful than usual, until their redheaded friend turned around.

“Nothing. As expected. I wonder why we have to do those patrols anyway. We’re students, not guards,” the Hufflepuff complained.

“It teaches us responsibility,” Harry answered with one of the reasons given to him when he had asked.

Susan scoffed. “It robs us of our beauty sleep. Besides, it’s an open secret that the 6th year prefects use the patrols as an opportunity for some ‘exploration’.” The witch grinned at the last word in a rather lecherous way. Glancing back at Hermione, she added “Are you looking forward to that as well? The Prefect’s Bathroom could fit us three with room to spare…”

Harry saw Hermione’s eyes widen at the implication, then turn to him. Pleading, warning… he wasn’t sure. He had to say something though - Hermione insisted on keeping up appearances since this was ‘an official function’. It often made a patrol rather awkward. Which, he realised, probably was her goal in the first place.

He tried for a neutral answer. “That’s not a topic we have discussed so far.”

That was true, even. The two of them talked about ‘Harry’s Hopefuls’, if they were using one of Hermione’s more polite terms used for the pureblood witches pursuing him, quite often - or rather, Hermione talked about them while Harry mostly listened. But their friends making such offers… they didn’t talk about that. Didn’t want to talk about that.

It looked like they’d have to, though.

“Mh.” Susan grinned, but didn’t comment further.

He exchanged another glance with Hermione. Yes, they definitely had to talk about that. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort knew Augustus had failed the instant Macnair entered his throne room. The executioner for the Ministry was afraid, even if he was trying to hide it, and that meant something had happened at the Ministry that the wizard thought would anger him.

“I see Rookwood has failed.” His words made Macnair stop, and he was certain the Death Eater was gaping behind his mask.

“Y-yes, Master. There was an alert, last night, and the Department of Mysteries was sealed off. Dumbledore was seen entering, then leaving, and the Aurors and Hit-Wizards were told to stand down. I heard from another employee that an intruder had been killed.” Macnair’s voice grew steadier as he spoke and realised he’d not be punished.

Voldemort almost shook his head. Why would he punish one man for another’s failure? When he had enemies to vent his anger on, should he choose to? He nodded instead. “He knew what risks he was braving for me, and he will be remembered as one of my most faithful.”

He smirked when Macnair trembled at that comment - the man knew very well that he hadn’t been as faithful as Augustus. Though he might yet prove to be useful as a spy in the Ministry. Or at least, able to spring an important prisoner from its cells, should the need arise. It wasn’t as if the man was born to be a spy - he was a brute who delighted in violence, but those were a sickle a dozen in the Dark Lord’s ranks, even with the recent losses.

“Keep your eyes and ears open, but do not draw attention to yourself.” A gesture sent the man away, bowing and scaping.

Once the door had closed behind the Death Eater, Voldemort leaned back in his chair. Bellatrix, never far from his side, stepped up to him. She didn’t touch him, nor spoke, but simply stood there.

He took a deep breath, then another. It was a setback, not a defeat. Augustus would be missed, but his failure proved that he had not been as reliable and skilled as he, and Voldemort, had thought. “I might have to think of another way to get the contents of the prophecy.”

“You will succeed, Master,” Bellatrix stated with utter conviction.

“Of course. But the prophecy is well-guarded. I think I will have to take the Ministry to gain access to it, and once I have achieved that, there wouldn’t be much of a need to know the prophecy anymore.” Unless Potter was still alive. “The seer who made the prophecy is still alive, but safe at Hogwarts. And even if she could remember her prophecy, Dumbledore would have had obliviated her of the knowledge.”

He stood up, pacing around. “No… the Ministry is the key still. They are bound to give anyone mentioned in a prophecy access to it. At least those not involved in a war against the Ministry. We need someone mentioned in another prophecy. Someone who will be able to enter the hall without raising suspicion. Someone we can influence without resorting to magic. A tall order, but not impossible.”

It would be a long shot, but it seemed to be the only way to reach the prophecy. And he needed it. Without knowing what the prophecy said, he was too vulnerable and couldn’t plan properly. He had been defeated once, when he went after Potter without knowing the full prophecy. He’d not make the same mistake again.

Of course, all that was just a backup plan in case the boy survived the summer.

*****

Keith Yennington looked at his new body and sighed. If only Finnegan Greenbrand had not been compromised as the ‘Pleasing Pixie’s’ owner. That wizard at least had been young and handsome. The body of Francis Farseer though was old and less handsome. At least it was male. Though staring at his suddenly flabby stomach, stubby legs and wrinkled skin made him think that using a witch’s body might have been the lesser evil, even if he would have had to learn how to move and act.

Hortensius at least was impersonating a younger wizard to play Farseer’s bodyguard, the lucky wand. Keith glanced at the man, and noticed just how carefully neutral an expression he was showing.

“You know, having you pose as a female courtesan instead of a bodyguard would probably help with our disguise,” Keith said, and grinned when the man flinched.

“Farseer entering Knockturn Alley without at least one bodyguard would draw a lot of attention though,” Hortensius countered.

“Right. It was just a joke,” Keith admitted. “I am not fond of wearing a body I cannot move quickly in when I need to.” He could cast well enough, but he wouldn’t be able to dodge much, or take cover easily.

Hortensius nodded. He’d have to make up the difference as a bodyguard. Keith knew he would - he was one of his best men. A bit more experience, maybe a bit more initiative as well, and he’d recommend him as one to be marked. That would strengthen his own position among the followers of the Dark Lord as well. If the Dark Lord agreed, of course.

“Let’s hit the Alley. We have some carousing to do.”

*****

Mathilda Miller, wearing another muggle wig and tanned to a darker skin tone, felt another hand grab her butt when she walked past a crowded table. Her experience and training made it easy to giggle and smile instead of hexing the thug’s face off, even as she evaded his attempt to pull her onto his lap. He was a two-knut wand for hire, and she was after other targets this day.

She made her way to the bar, walking slowly and provocatively, smiling at anyone in her vicinity so she had enough time and a cover for studying the tavern. She wouldn’t be caught by an ambush again. In a side booth, an old wizard was molesting a young witch while his bodyguard looked on boredly. Francis Farseer, looking quite vigorous for his age. But then again, as one of her first regulars in Paris used to say: ‘lechery keeps wizards young’. Until it didn’t anymore, of course. Farseer was a regular in Knockturn Alley, and had his fingers in a few of the businesses there according to rumors, but Mathilda didn’t think there was much truth behind those rumors - he didn’t look like a player. Not the kind of player that ran a business in the Alley, at least.

The tavern looked safe - or as safe as the Alley got, these days, which was not as much as she would have liked. The ruffians and mercenaries were tense, on edge, and it was hard to tell who was working for whom. For most of the wands, at least. Some though were quite suspicious. Those who had more gold than usual, and didn’t spend it in the taverns of the Old Crowd, were likely to be working for the Dark Lord - knowingly or not. And Mathilda was dressed just classy enough to attract that kind of wand for hire looking for pleasures he hadn’t been able to afford until now.

Like the one ogling her now, wearing brand-new robes and a lecherous expression. She tossed her hair back and slowly looked him over while licking her lips. Faking a pleased smile, she turned towards him, and let her robe’s neckline descend a bit more. His gaze followed, and she was certain he wouldn’t be able to tell the color of her eyes even after an hour of talking to her.

Not that the man would spend that much time talking. Mathilda expected to be in a private room in half an hour, or less. Then all she had to do was make certain that he thought keeping a piece of her clothes as a trophy was his idea all along.

*****

Sirius Black was recasting the ‘Protean Charm Tracking Charm’ again. Hermione really needed some help with naming things, he thought. If she and Harry ever had children, he had to ensure she didn’t get to name them.

“Any change?” Valérie asked.

“No. The ‘item’ hasn’t moved at all so far,” Sirius couldn’t help but grin at the thought of what items exactly he had been marking with a Protean Charm for this mission.

“It might be another safe ‘ouse,” Chantal remarked, staring at the house in question - more like a cottage - through her omnioculars.

“Or it might be the mercenary’s own ‘ome,” Laure spoke up. “If we call in reinforcements, and it turns out to be just one mercenary…”

“Not to mention that we’re supposed to keep the methods we are using to track them a secret,” Eugénie reminded everyone.

“Beel and me can shred the wards though, and we can handle the typical raiding group,” Fleur claimed confidently. Her fiancé nodded - not, Sirius thought, that any red-blooded or redhaired wizard would disagree with his girlfriend if they were in his place.

Everyone was looking at him, the wizard realised. He was the leader of their group. He had to make the call. Attack, retreat, call for help, or wait and hope they’d leave for a raid? He wanted to attack. To show that scum how it felt to be stuck in a cottage while the wards were breaking, unable to flee from certain death.

But that would be reckless. The kind of stupid stunt he would have done in the last war, if not for more experienced people leading him. Had done, despite wiser advice. He’d not risk his family like that. Veela might be able to throw fireballs around at will, be able to transform and shred a wizard with their claws, but they were not invulnerable, and curses hurt them like anyone else. With the exception of giants and their kin, of course. And ambushing the Death Eaters in the middle of a raid would be safer than attacking them in their base. Less likely for enemy reinforcements to arrive as well. Always assuming that the thug even carried the marked item with him, instead of dropping it off. But Sirius was pretty certain that the man would keep it on him - he had done the same, back in the last war, and many others he had known had done so as well.

“We wait some more. We can always raid the cottage later, after further observation.”

Hadn’t the Weasley twins created some items to peep and spy on people? Sirius could buy them in bulk, and with a legitimate excuse now!

His group settled down to wait, safely hidden from view by the distance, and by the cover of an abandoned stable. No one tried to let it show, but everyone was tense. Bill and Fleur sat together, the Veela in the wizard’s lap, whispering. Chantal kept staring at the cottage, only interrupting her vigil to briefly rub the bridge of her nose. Laure and Eugénie were watching their surroundings like hawks. And Valérie… was watching him pace.

He flashed her a smile, then recast the Protean Charm Tracking Charm again. Hermione had mentioned something about comparing the times and locations of all attacks, to predict future attacks. Apparently muggles were that predictable. Sirius didn’t think it would work with Death Eaters - they were crazy after all. Like rabid animals. He knew it, after having spent ten years in a cell next to the worst of them.

For a second he was back in his cell, cold and shivering from the effects of the dementors, tormented by guilt and nightmares. He didn’t notice he was trembling until he felt Valérie’s arms around him, her head resting on his shoulder and her chest pressed into his back. She was warm, safe, comforting. Everything Azkaban was not.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and whispered “Thank you” to her. She didn’t answer, just held him, but he knew she was smiling, just as he knew no one was looking at them right now and no one would mention his ‘episode’.

An hour and a dozen tracking charms later - they lasted longer, but it gave him something to do while waiting, and was good training - he noticed the tracked man had moved. “Up and ready, they’ve apparated away!” he said loudly. Valérie was at his side, she hadn’t left him at all, and after a quick disillusionment spell he side-apparated her along to a location about 500 meters away from his target while the others were still getting up. They knew the plan.

The animagus and the Veela appeared in a small field, with low hedges on its borders. Sirius turned in the direction his wand was indicating, and spotted a small but sturdy looking house in the expected distance. Probably one of the dwindling numbers of older muggleborn homes that had not yet been abandoned in favor of their Patron’s mansions.

His own omnioculars showed dark-robed figures surrounding it. He reached out until his hand found his girlfriend’s invisible body, then took her hand and pointed at a corner of the field, where a bush was granting some feeble cover. “We’ll gather there.”

“D’accord.”

A second later, both of them were back at the stable, picking up their passengers for the next side-apparition. Not even 30 seconds later, all of the members of Sirius’s Sexy Strike Squad, as he liked to think of them, were assembled on the field, crouching down.

“Alright, you know the drill,” he started. “They’ve surrounded the house, we will hit them in the back. Bill and Fleur, you put up the Anti-Apparition and Portkey Jinxes. Once you’re ready, fireball the closest one. The rest will strike as well then. They’ll have Anti-Disillusionment Jinxes up, so don’t get too close. Go!”

Invisible and silenced, they moved towards the house, spreading out as they got closer. Sirius wished he had a way to keep track of where everyone of his group was. Hermione and Harry had told him about enchanted glasses that could track others like the Marauder’s Map, but so far Remus and himself hadn’t managed to get that kind of enchantment working. Maybe with Hermione and Harry filling in for James...

He reached his chosen spot, the farthest away from their original position, and took aim at the Death Eater guarding the left side of the house. The animagus could see people rushing around inside the house, panicking. Despairing. He snarled. They’d not be harmed, he told himself.

Suddenly, two fireballs flew at one of the Death Eaters in the front of the house. Before they struck their target, eight more from the other Veela were on the way, and the night turned briefly to day. Sirius saw the black-robed man in front of him jerk, then spin around, and let loose with a volley of curses himself. The masked man’s shield took two of them, and his robe’s enchantments flared as it absorbed the next two spells. The dark wizard was quick to retaliate, but Sirius, still disillusioned, had already moved to the side, and the Death Eater’s spells went wide.

A Blasting Curse of his own aimed at the ground sent the man staggering and interrupted his attempts to recast his shield. A Piercing Curse was stopped by the robe, as was an Incendio, but his Bone-Breaking Curse got through the remains of the robe, and the man screamed when his leg snapped like a twig. He still managed to send a few spells back into Sirius’s direction, among them a Killing Curse, but aimed at an invisible opponent, they were easily dodged. The time that had cost him meant that his next bone-crushing spell was stopped by the robe’s recovered protection though. Snarling, Sirius rapidly cast a few of his family’s darker spells and didn’t stop until he had reduced the man to a glob of burning flesh.

Meanwhile, the Veela’s fireballs kept raining down on the Death Eaters, shattering shields and setting robes on fire as enchantments overloaded and failed. He saw one man running around, burning and screaming, before being hit by another fireball, and ending on the ground, mercifully silent now.

Another Death Eater was faring better, having rushed to the house while only slightly singed. They couldn’t use fireballs without risking setting the house they had come to save on fire. Curses on the other hand were safe to use, and the Death Eater didn’t last long when two focused on him. His robes must have been weakened before by the fire.

While Sirius was about to move around to the back of the house, he suddenly felt a tingling sensation, and noticed his disillusionment fading. He dropped to the ground and rolled to the side at once, then changed into Padfoot and sprinted around the corner while behind him, curses struck the grass and stone steps of the garden.

He cleared the corner, and was snout to mask with another Death Eater. Without any hesitation he pounced, bowling the man over and causing his curse to go wide. They hit the ground, and his jaws closed around the man’s neck. A jerk of his head later, the dark wizard was missing most of his throat. Padfoot almost swallowed it while his enemy died, but remembered to spit the meat out. Changing back into Sirius he took cover at the corner, ignoring the warm blood covering his face and running down his throat and chest.

He crouched down and looked around it. There was the bastard, sending spells up in the air - the Veelas had taken to the sky in their bird form. Focusing on his attempts to hit the flying witches, the Death Eater didn’t notice Sirius’s spells until it was too late and his shield was shattered and his robe transfigured into a boa constrictor. Before he managed to finite that spell, two fireballs burned both him and the snake, and a Piercing Curse to the head from Sirius finished him off.

Sirius quickly checked the sky himself, four Veela were flying, but one of them, Laure, had trouble, bleeding from a wound to her leg. She didn’t land though. No more spells were flying, or at least Sirius couldn’t see any, but that didn’t mean the danger was over. He didn’t think the kind of thugs they had ambushed and decimated were the kind to hide and strike, risking their lives to deal another blow to their enemy. They were far more likely to flee. But he had to make certain that the enemy was beaten, and that everyone of his was safe.

Padfoot ran around the house, past the mostly charred corpses of the Death Eaters. He neither saw nor smelled any living foe. Fleur and Bill were alive, though the redhead had taken a curse judging from the way he was holding his side and how the Veela stood protectively in front of him. He looked like he’d live though.

Padfoot changed to Sirius, and the wizard turned towards the house, speaking loudly: “You should be safe now, but remain inside until the Aurors have arrived.”

Hopefully, they hadn’t seen too much of the battle, and the information about their tactics wouldn’t leak. Not that they could use the same tactics again. Complete surprise on their side, and striking from an ambush while disillusioned, against a bunch of thugs, and still two of their numbers ended up hurt? That wasn’t exactly an overwhelming victory. He’d have to address that, but later. Merlin’s balls, he was starting to think like Remus talked!

Laure had landed, and the cut on her leg was being taken care of by Eugénie. It wasn’t a dark curse - the thugs had cast remarkably few dark curses, as far as he could tell - and as a member of the Black family, he was quite versed in that kind of knowledge. Another sign that those men and women had been curse fodder, not marked Death Eaters. Chantal had blood dripping from her claws, she must have shredded an enemy in melee. Valérie was looking around, feathers fading and eyes blazing. Sirius felt something stir in him, watching the Veela. Padfoot, he realised, recognizing fellow predators.

He shook his head and cleaned his own face and chest, then tracked down the corpse of the wizard who had led them unwittingly to the raiders. It was one of the heavily burned bodies, most of his the robe and his skin gone, leaving blackened, shriveled flesh. He vanished it anyway.

Should the Aurors find some knickers on a dark wizard’s corpse, Sirius was sure the news would spread through the whole DMLE. And that could endanger the spy who had placed them on the target.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort shook his head as he read the report Bella had brought to him. “So, your sister’s brat claims he has a spy close to Potter.”

“Yes, Master.” Bella, standing next to his seat in his room, nodded.

“How trustworthy is Malfoy?” He slid the parchment over his desk. Narcissa had neat penmanship. As expected from a pureblood witch from a good family.

“He’s a braggart, but he’d not dare lying to you.” Bella grinned. He understood what she meant at once.

“Like Lucius then. He would omit certain things and stress others to make him look better. And your sister has likely rewritten his report, to polish it a bit.” Voldemort shook his head.

“Yes, Master.” Bellatrix smirked. She knew as well as he did that Narcissa had, in her attempt to protect her son from his own arrogance, turned second-hand information into third-hand information.

“Which means this is very unlikely to be accurate. Still, the gist of the report might be true. Potter’s training his schoolmates. And the names of those participating might be correct as well.” Though he’d not put it past Lucius’s son to pad the list with rivals or other people he held a grudge against.

“I can get a memory of a session from one of the students named, Master,” Bella offered, eagerly.

He shook his head. “No. You’d only be able to get your wand on one of them in Hogsmeade, and that village is too closely guarded.” She opened her mouth, but his raised hand stopped her protest. “I know you could do it, but information about a child’s lessons is not worth the risk you would have to take. Eostra Break will offer more opportunities, with far less risk.”

Bella nodded. “Yes, Master.” She seemed mollified, but also disappointed. Ah, his lover was too eager to prove her worth, despite knowing she was his best wand.

“It will also give us time enough to acquire a pensieve without leaving traces.” He idly wondered if he had made copies of his own memories, and then obliviated himself of the knowledge of the action. He thought so - the risk of an enemy stumbling onto the memories was not negligible, but acceptable if he had only trusted Bellatrix with the location. His horcruxes wouldn’t protect his memories, after all, and to return to life, but without any of his experiences or knowledge would be as bad as dying. And yet, wouldn’t the ways he had prepared to kill himself to prevent his capture be sufficient to deal with this kind of threat? Well, if he was careful enough he’d never find out what exactly he had done.

He put the report down, next to the news article claiming a dozen Death Eaters had been killed by a werewolf, a vampire and a flock of harpies. Delusional, although it was true he had lost a raiding group. But they had just been curse fodder. Yennington better had to hire more competent replacements though - it wouldn’t do to let the rabble think they stood a chance against his forces.

*****


	30. Overdue Talks

**Chapter 30: Overdue Talks**

Hermione Granger frowned. Harry had sighed. Loudly. While reading his DADA book - one of the good ones. And he was fidgeting, and glancing towards her. Which was distracting her from her own work.

They were alone in ‘their’ room since Ron was off with Padma. Their best friend had been doing that more often lately and the muggleborn witch was glad that his relationship with Padma was improving. Ron had had a lot of stress lately, with having to cover for Harry when it came to teaching those hussies and with Parkinson making cow eyes at him as if she was a teenage Mata Hari.

So, it was all set for a quiet evening, ideal to get some more research into sympathetic magic done. And it had been a peaceful, productive evening so far. She’d had another idea for a possible way to target Death Eaters through the Dark Mark, a promising idea even. And then Harry had started to sigh.

She wondered why he didn’t say what he obviously wanted to tell her, until she suddenly realised what he had to be thinking of, and smiled. Indeed, she could study with Ron present, but there were things she and Harry couldn’t do in public. Not without being embarrassed a lot, at least.

Closing her book, Hermione walked over to the couch her boyfriend was sitting on, trying to ‘add a little something’ to her gait, as Valérie called it. Judging by the way he raised his eyebrows, it was working.

“Mhh.” She sat down next to him. “You look a bit distracted, Harry. Something on your mind?” She leaned against him and ran her fingers over his chest.

“Ah… yes,” he answered, licking his lips.

Hermione’s smile grew wider, and she gently pulled his head towards hers for a kiss. Definitely a good idea, she thought when the kiss had ended. Making out on the Headmaster’s desk had been a thrilling, exciting experience, but this was more intimate, more tender. She slid her left leg over his lap, and leaned in to kiss the side of his neck.

“We need to talk, Hermione,” Harry suddenly said in a slightly strained voice.

What? The young muggleborn witch blinked. That wasn’t something she wanted to hear right when they started snogging. That wasn’t something anyone wanted to hear, actually, since it usually precluded bad news. Tensing up, she tried to think of what Harry wanted to talk about. Good lord, he hadn’t been trying to lure her away from her work for some snogging session, he had tried to work up his courage for this talk!

Suddenly very nervous, she pulled back. “W-What about?”? She knew he wouldn’t be breaking up with her, but a small part of her still feared he’d do that. Or that he’d tell her he’d found a pureblood witch to marry for appearance’s sake.

*****

Harry Potter winced at seeing his girlfriend all but recoil at his words. He should have handled that better, much better. He should have started talking as soon as Ron had left, instead of waiting and trying to find a reason to have this talk another day.

“Sixth year,” he answered Hermione.

“Oh.” She looked cute, right then. Relieved for a moment - what had she thought he was going to talk about? - then slightly flushed, then worried again. “Oh.”

“Yes.” He sighed, and took hold of her hand, gently squeezing it. “It’s less than six months away.”

“Yes.” Hermione nodded. Harry could tell, or thought he could, that she didn’t want to talk about this any more than he did. But they had to. And in complete sentences.

“You remember what Susan said?” he asked. This would take some delicate maneuvering.

Hermione frowned at once. “Yes,” she said, anger audible in her voice.

“I doubt she’s the only among our friends that, ah, expects some exploring,” he said. “Might expect. She could have been joking. Or teasing.”

“I don’t think she was joking,” Hermione ground out.

“I don’t think so either.” It was hard to tell, sometimes, with the redhead. And with others. But that time, Harry thought, Susan had not just been teasing either,

“And if she has been teasing us, then it was in poor taste,” Hermione said, pushing her chin forward.

“Asking as if you were joking can be a way to test the waters, to soften a rejection and save face.” Harry wasn’t outright contradicting his girlfriend, just trying to make her see Susan’s possible point of view.

Hermione sighed and leaned back. “I know that. I am just fed up with pureblood witches hitting on you. Or half-blood witches,” she added. Harry’s girlfriend hadn’t pulled her hand away. Instead she had tightened her grip on his hand.

“Well, they don’t hit just on me,” Harry grinned, slightly.

“Ron can handle them,” Hermione made a dismissive gesture with her hand.

“I didn’t mean Ron. I meant you,” Harry clarified.

Hermione’s eyes opened wide, showing her surprise. “Me? Witches hitting on me?”

“Luna.”

“Oh.” Hermione sighed again. “Yes,” she admitted. “Luna’s certainly… teasing me at least.”

Harry thought that Hermione would have started cursing if any witch had teased Harry like the blonde had teased her, but didn’t press the point. Luna was quirky, bubbly, friendly, and very hard to read. And she was a very good friend. “And… well, he hasn’t said anything, but, what if Ron follows his brothers’ example?”

It didn’t take long for his girlfriend to connect the dots. Tales of the Weasley twins’ exploits in their sixth year had made the rounds in the Gryffindor common room. They were certainly, hopefully vastly, exaggerated, it was just the kind of prank the twins would do, but even taking that into account…

“Merlin! You think he expects his ‘brother-in-all-but-blood’ to… you, me, Padma?” Hermione was gaping at him.

“He hasn’t said anything like that!” Harry hastened to repeat. He didn’t want his girlfriend to go after their best friend for what might be idle speculation.

“He better not!” Hermione huffed.

Harry decided not to mention Ron’s claim back in third year, that ‘as Basilisk Slayers we’ll be able to pick any witch we want in our Year of Exploration!’ They had been thirteen at the time, children still. Ron had grown up since.

“Anyway, what do we do when we get such invitations from our friends and acquaintances?” There, he had asked the question that had been on his mind since that talk with Susan.

Hermione sighed. “I don’t even know what we’ll do when strangers hit on us.”

“Sirius said…” Harry started, but his girlfriend cut him off quickly.

“Sirius wants you to have as much sex as possible!” Hermione almost jumped to her feet when she said that. She was right, Harry knew. But...

“He’s been in Azkaban for twelve years. Thoughts of sex were probably keeping him alive there. He means well.” And he was doing well, too. If a bit… extreme sometimes.

Hermione leaned back again. “I know. It’s a miracle that he’s not an emotional wreck.” She didn’t have to add ‘more of a’. Both teenagers knew Sirius was getting better, but was far from being well yet.

“And to be fair, he probably wants you to have as much sex as possible too,” Harry added. He didn’t know. He might have known, had he ever listened to the tales about his mother’s sixth year Sirius offered to tell him so often. But that wasn’t something he’d ever do.

Hermione glared at him. “Sex with you. I doubt he wants me to ‘play the field’, just you.”

For a moment Harry was afraid she had overheard some of Sirius talks with him when the man had drunk a bit too much. “Did he tell you that?”

“No,” Hermione admitted. “but …“ she trailed off and pressed her lips together before speaking again. “I noticed a distinct lack of ‘jokes’ about me attracting wizards - or witches.”

Harry didn’t remember any such jokes either - and he was rather certain he would have noticed, had there be any. “That’s true, but that doesn’t have to mean anything. He is rather concerned about me following in his footsteps.”

“You mean, he is concerned you might not become our year’s ‘biggest player’,” Hermione corrected him.

Harry nodded, acknowledging the point. “Those magazines have had a rather bad effect on his vocabulary.”

Hermione snorted, but didn’t let on. “But my point is that Sirius is not exactly a trustworthy source about … this issue.”

“Sex you mean.”

“No, I mean the Year of Discovery and its social conventions. I am pretty much certain he is a decent authority on the act of sex,” she said, then briefly pursed her lips in thought and added: “If he isn’t, but still was the biggest casanova of his year, then that makes me worry about the standards of the witches at Hogwarts.”

Harry gaped at her, then stared. Did she want him to ask his godfather for tips for sex? Or even instructions? Merlin! What did she expect of him when they finally had sex? He knew his girlfriend was a perfectionist, but with that? He shook his head and returned to the real topic. “But who else can we ask? Remus?”

Hermione bit her lower lip. “You know he has issues with relationships, due to his curse. But he’s a teacher, and well, teachers have to know how the Year of Discovery works, since it’s their duty to handle any problems or other issues at school.”

Harry nodded. Remus had been carrying a torch for Nymphadora for a while, but he had gotten over it - at least he thought so. “And he’s used to keeping Sirius somewhat in check.”

“Unless he’s going along with one of your godfather’s ideas.” Hermione pointed out.

Harry winced. “I don’t think he would do that to us, not for such a serious matter.”

“As long as he thinks it’s serious too. And not ‘Sirius’.” Hermione huffed.

“Yes. But again - what are the alternatives? Nymphadora?” Harry asked. Both of them shook their heads. The metamorphmagus was a very good friend, family too, but neither of them wanted to ask her about sixth year. Or sex. Not since that evening at the Grangers’ no one would be mentioning ever again.

“Andromeda maybe?” Hermione asked.

Harry considered her. The head of the Black-Tonks Family was the closest to a female authority figure in their extended family. And yet... “Nymphadora’s her daughter,” he answered.

Hermione frowned. “That could mean she’s used to a lot, and knows a lot.”

“Could, yes.” Harry admitted. And that about was it, for close magical relatives of them.

“So, it’ll be Remus?”

Harry sighed. “Sirius might be hurt if he thinks I don’t trust him and went to Remus instead.”

Hermione frowned, but agreed. “That’s true.” She didn’t say anything about whether or not she thought that was a risk she considered worth taking.

“We could talk to both of them together?” Harry smiled weakly.

“OK,” Hermione said, in a voice that hinted that this wasn’t entirely OK. “But if this goes wrong…”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Harry asked, then held up his hand. “Don’t tell me. Years of embarrassing stories told at Yuletide gatherings?”

“Yes. Do you think we can make them swear not to tell anyone?” Hermione grinned ruefully.

Harry didn’t think that would be enough. Sirius loved him, and wouldn’t want to hurt him, but he had a tendency to cast or speak before thinking. But it wasn’t as if there was a magical oath to make them keep silent. “Probably.”

Hermione’s wince told him she shared his thoughts.

*****

“Sirius? Remus? Do you have a moment?”

Sirius Black turned away from his talk with Valérie, who had joined him and Remus for the training with Harry, Hermione and their friends that evening, and looked at his godson. They had just finished today’s session, and the couple’s friends had already left, in various states of discomfort or exhaustion. “Of course Harry!” he exclaimed, not bothering to check with his friend. They’d always have time for Harry!

Remus shot him a look, but for once, didn’t disagree. Valérie smiled and nodded as well. Sirius noticed the slightly uneasy glances Harry and Hermione directed at the Veela and was puzzled. He had thought the three got along rather well, at least better than what he heard of was the norm when a father brought home a new girlfriend barely older than his children. Granted, he didn’t know how muggles thought about that. Come to think of, he hadn’t ever asked Harry what his godson thought about Sirius’s girlfriends. Or Hermione. Girls often had jealousy issues with Veela, hadn’t they?

“It’s kind of private,” Harry started.

“We need to know a bit more about Hogwarts Year of Discovery,” Hermione explained, with another glance at Valérie. “We hear a lot of rumors about it, but we’d like to know the facts.”

“Ah, you’ve come to the right wizard then!” Sirius responded enthusiastically. Usually, Harry tried to change the topic or even left when he started to talk about his Year of Discovery, but now his godson was finally listening! Hermione probably had made him do it. He ignored Remus’s groan.

“Indeed. Sirius is an expert on that topic,” Valérie agreed, wrapping an arm around him.

Sirius ignored the surprised looks on his the teen’s faces, and started with his favorite story: “There was this wall flower, Mary Barton. She was pretty, but she lacked confidence because she had been rather gangly when she started at Hogwarts, all limbs and no curves. That continued even after she had grown up, if you know what I mean. So she was terribly shy, even after the year had started. But one night we met in the hallways, when I was returning from the Prefect’s Bathroom…”

“Sirius!” Harry held his hand up and cut him off, and Hermione seemed to be blushing for some weird reason.

“I thought you wanted to hear about the Year of Exploration?” Sirius asked, confused.

His godson rubbed his face while Hermione muttered something under her breath the animagus didn’t catch.

“We have questions we’d like to ask, Sirius. Of you and Remus,” Harry said.

“I’ve made a list,” Hermione added.

Of course the girl had made a list, Sirius thought. She probably had made a list for Harry as well, to check off when they finally made love to each other. Come to think of, that sounded like a good idea, actually. He should make a list for Harry. His godson had a reputation to live up to, after all.

“Ask away,” Remus told them.

Sirius shot him a glance. Harry was his godson, so instructing him about witches and their needs fell to Sirius. Remus hadn’t half his experience, anyway, and that was with him locked up in Azkaban for over a decade… he shivered a moment, feeling the damp cold of the prison again, until the warmth from Valérie’s body pressed into his side banished the memory.

Harry took a deep breath. “What do you do if a friend asks you to sleep with them, and you don’t feel like it?” Hermione glared at him, so he probably just went off script. The witch needed more spontaneity, Sirius felt. The next year would be good for her.

Sirius was still pondering how to answer that when Remus spoke up: “Well, that’s a delicate situation, but not an uncommon one. Why don’t you want to sleep with your friend?”

Sirius almost rolled his eyes at Moony. Wasn’t ‘so Hermione doesn’t end up using the curses she learned from the Black Family library’ a good enough reason?

“We don’t want to sleep with anyone but each other,” Harry said, with Hermione nodding firmly. The witch was holding his hand too. Maybe next Yuletide he’d get her a leash for him, Sirius thought.

“Ah. Well, in that case, honesty is the best policy...” Remus began.

Sirius cut his friend off before he could start a lecture: “You’re worried about social pressure to sleep around, right? Go wild and all that?” He noticed everyone but Valérie was staring at him. “What? Aren’t you?”

“Err… yes,” Harry nodded. Hermione was still looking at him as if she was astonished. Glancing at a slip of parchment, Harry continued: We’d like to know if it is socially acceptable to refuse taking part in casual sex with friends and acquaintances, or if that would be a faux pas?”

Sirius nodded. He had been expecting that. Probably encouraged it a bit with his teasing. “You don’t have to sleep with anyone you don’t want to. Anyone who claims otherwise is a liar and probably should be cursed so they don’t try that line on someone else.”

Remus the spoilsport coughed. “It’s perfectly acceptable to refuse such offers. The Year of Discovery is, among other things, about having the freedom to explore your sexuality in a safe environment. It isn’t about having to do anything, especially not something you’re not comfortable with. Contrary to what you might expect after hearing Sirius’s stories, not everyone goes wild.”

Moony really had become a perfect teacher, Sirius thought. Though in hindsight, the animagus should have foreseen that after all the lectures Moony had given him during their school years.

Seeing the relief on Harry’s and Hermione’s faces, Sirius didn’t add ‘they should, though.’

“That’s great,” Harry said, smiling. “We were afraid we’d offend our friends if we didn’t join their orgies.”

Hermione nodded emphatically.

Remus chuckled. “The students generally don’t have orgies.”

“Hey! Don’t knock orgies until you have tried them! You never know when you need to know what you learned from them!” Sirius protested. He knew what he had done in school! And who!

“Indeed. ‘e ‘as a lot of experience with multiple partners,” Valérie added with a smile that spoke of great satisfaction. The Veela had been silent so far. Not surprisingly, since she didn’t know much about Hogwarts. She knew a lot about Sirius though.

Remus rolled his eyes. Jealous, no doubt. “I said ‘generally’. You were not really an example of an average student, Padfoot.”

“Not to brag, but I am far from average,” Sirius grinned, squeezing his girlfriend.

“Unfortunately, in more ways than one,” Hermione muttered, earning her a glare from Harry.

Moony snorted at that, the traitor. “You’ll find that most of the students don’t really act like Sirius.”

“Or Fred and George,” Harry added.

“Yes, those....” Remus trailed off.

If he was a teacher there, Sirius thought, he’d have showed those upstarts just why the Marauders were a legend in Hogwarts. But Moony probably was too much a teacher now to do it properly.

He spoke up again: “To be honest, I should have talked to you two about this a bit ago - for all that you play the pureblood Patron, you’re just a teenager yourself, Harry, and a muggle-raised one at that. Your mother didn’t know much about sixth year either until she visited her Patron over Eostra Break in our fifth year.”

Remus laughed. “I remember her hexing you and James with curses she had specifically learned for the occasion after she found out you two had been lying to her about it.”

“She did. And then our ‘Flower Power’ went wild anyway.” Sirius smiled at the memories until he noticed Harry was staring at him with that horrified expression again. As was Hermione. He coughed. “Moving on. While our dear teacher here is correct that you don’t have to sleep with anyone, a rejection is still a rejection.” Which was why never turning a witch down was the polite, correct thing to do for such a fine wizard as he had been in school. Of course he hadn’t had a steady girlfriend. If he had been with a witch like Lily, or Valérie, back then...

“Oh.” Harry and Hermione said together.

“Yes. Moony has the right idea, about being honest at least. He has some weird ideas about other things though.” He shielded the hex from Moony, and the shoe-lace tying jinx following that spell. “But you should be subtle too.” He would have said ‘cunning’, if not for that word being tainted by its association with the snakes. “Don’t lead them on, but let them down gently, and let them save face. Don’t reject them in public, do it in private. Even if they ask publically. With the war going on and all, you’ve got enough excuses to stall when needed.” Sirius saw the two teenagers were listening with rapt attention. Hermione was even taking notes. Maybe he should look into becoming a teacher himself?

Smiling, he continued sharing his wisdom with his godson and Hermione. “Although once you’re comfortable with each other, you might want to look into having some fun with your friends. Or at least spreading rumors to that extent.”

He saw that at least Hermione understood what he was saying, or warning them of. Even if she didn’t look like she liked it.

Sirius smirked, and added: “Of course, if you don’t sleep with others, you’ll have to sleep with each other a lot more to get the proper and healthy amount of sex!”

Two groans, one exasperated “Sirius!” and one giggling Veela were the expected reactions. Plus another hex he shielded against.

*****

Keith Yennington looked at the hired wands assembled before him. The group was a far cry from the wands he had led for the Dark Lord against the Longbottoms. Wulfred would have been a model wand for hire compared to them. It couldn’t be helped though - pickings among the mercenaries in Britain had been slim lately, and the attacks the Dark Lord had ordered would have to be executed by the best of them. He couldn’t risk another failure. So for his own personal goals, Keith had to make use of who was left available. At least he had Hortensius with him, still. And Hannah, to deal with the wards. The rest were thugs, and thugs without much potential to grow into skilled, disciplined fighters at that. But there were a dozen of them, and numbers would tell.

He nodded at them. “You know your orders. As soon as the wards go down you strike. I want them alive, so no Killing Curses.” He glared at them, until they were cowed. If they deprived him of his vengeance, they’d suffer instead until they begged for death. Satisfied, he nodded, and turned to Hannah and Hortensius.

“Walk with me.”

The two veterans, the only ones left of his original group, followed him, to the edge of the small forest they were hiding in. He stared at the decrepit-looking barn in the middle of the abandoned field next to the forest. “How long will it take you to deal with the wards?” he asked, without looking at the witch next to him.

“About seven minutes,” Hannah answered. It was what he had expected. This was just a hideout, so the wards were not too strong. If only Blasius hadn’t been killed. With him working with Hannah they could have halved that time. It would have to be enough though. He glanced at Hortensius. The man needed no further prompting. “I’ll cover the back with half of the rabble.”

The wizard would have picked out their positions already - he was experienced. “Don’t take any risks. You’ve got the thugs for that,” Keith cautioned him anyway. He himself would take the rest and cover the front.

He stared at the barn again. No one would suspect that old, derelict building to be inhabited. Even the wards looked like fading remnants of an older time. Whoever had picked it had been clever. But not clever enough. Another visit to Timothy Brannigan had informed Keith that his prey had left their homes and moved to this safehouse.

He had timed his attack to start soon after the three others he had launched on the Dark Lord’s order. That would ensure that there wouldn’t be enough Aurors or Hit-Wizards available to help his prey.

He grinned ferally. Tonight, the two Aurors responsible for his punishments at the wand of the Dark Lord, for all the pain he had suffered, would pay.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick didn’t like the safehouse he and his partner, Bertha Limmington, had moved into. He understood the need - they couldn’t stay at their homes, not with their names known to the Dark Lord’s forces - but he would have preferred a safehouse where he didn’t have to live in an expanded room with conjured and transfigured furniture. And a safehouse they didn’t have to share with someone else. Especially not with Mathilda the spying courtesan.

He looked at the witch, lounging on the couch in their shared living room, acting as if all was well with the world and if she wasn’t hiding from the war just as the two Aurors were. The woman was wearing a skimpy robe that looked more appropriate for a brothel’s bar, and enjoying a cup of tea a bit too much. Kenneth at least didn’t think that the kind of noises she was making were appropriate outside the bedroom.

“Could you please stop that?” Apparently, Bertha, reading a book at the table, felt the same.

“Stop what?” Mathilda asked, all innocently. Kenneth wasn’t fooled though.

“Teasing Kenneth.” That comment from his partner had the Auror stare at her.

“I’m not teasing Ken there. I am teasing both of you.” The courtesan had a smug expression on her face, the same expression he had seen on rich criminals getting off in court. “And this is a really great tea. I haven’t had this blend in years. Abe must have felt really guilty for having me move out of my flat for my own safety.”

Kenneth ground his teeth. Of course she had to mention that she was best friends with Aberforth Dumbledore. The thought of angering that old wizard still made him queasy, and he was certain his usually very cold-blooded partner felt the same.

“Why are you teasing us?” Bertha asked, in her interrogation voice.

“It’s fun, and you two need it.” Mathilda took another sip, closed her eyes in apparent bliss, and moaned again. “You’re far too stuck up and wound up.”

“We aren’t!” Kenneth retorted.

“Honey, you both were wound up when I trained you, and you’re even more wound up now. I’d offer to help you relax, but I don’t think this is just the stress from the war, and I’d only make matters worse,” Mathilda declared.

Kenneth didn’t want to talk about that ‘training’. He didn’t even want to think about the mission where he used it. He wanted to tell the witch to shut up. He held his tongue though. Experience with the insufferable witch had taught him that he needed a cool head to debate anything with the spy.

“What are you implying?” Bertha asked, narrowing her eyes.

“I am implying that our mission shook you two up more than the war. Since I am partially responsible, I feel a bit obligated to help. Only a bit though, mind you.”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Kenneth snarled. He would deal with it himself, in private. He certainly wouldn’t lay his problems out for a spy, or a courtesan, to hear and pick at.

“I do not think you could be helpful to us. We’ll have to deal with the repercussions of those events by ourselves,” Bertha declared in the clinical voice Kenneth knew she used to hide her emotions.

Mathilda spread her hands. “Well, I offered. You can only throw the meat to the Thestral, you can’t make it eat it.” She didn’t seem particularly disappointed.

“Good. You can now stop teasing us.” Bertha nodded at the other witch. “Kenneth is currently reevaluating his view on witches, and you might hinder his efforts to grow up.”

“Hey!” Kenneth stood up and stared at his partner. He felt betrayed and hurt - she didn’t have to call him out in front of the spy, not like that.

The female Auror stared at him and for a moment he saw surprise flicker over her face, then regret, before she schooled her features. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the Floo connection in the room lit up and Aberforth Dumbledore’s face appeared. “The wards on the safehouse are under attack!” the old wizard yelled.

Kenneth summoned his Auror robes at once. He was almost glad for the interruption.

*****

Keith Yennington smiled. The barn was isolated, Floo travel, Apparition and portkeys suppressed, Disillusionment Charms as well. His hired wands were in place, and Hannah was close to bringing the wards down. The Aurors were trapped with no way out!

He glanced at the witch and once again cursed the fact they were all wearing masks. He couldn’t see if she was straining or not. Well, it didn’t matter. Only a bit more…

The wards broke, and he yelled: “Attack!”

Curses flew at the barn at once, blowing holes into walls and setting parts of the roof on fire. The expansion charms wouldn’t hold out long with their anchors being destroyed, and would force his prey into the open. He was smiling in anticipation when a terrible screech cut through the night, and Hannah disappeared in a fireball.

Keith reacted at once and started running, changing directions randomly. Two fireballs missed him, both close enough for him to feel their heat through his robes’ enchantments. Together with the screeching he knew who was attacking him. Those were not harpies, but Veela.

The Death Eater saw Hannah had survived the fireball that had hit her. She probably had her robe enchanted against fire and heat, many curse breakers did that. Even so smoke was rising from her robes and she stumbled more than she ran. Another fireball hit her, and she screamed loud enough to drown out the screeches while she started burning. Keith waved his wand and drowned the flames on her with water. Seeing the steam rise from the wounded witch, he had an idea. He quickly conjured water which he turned into a thick sheet of fog above their heads.

Hidden from the aerial attacker’s view, he grabbed the witch and dragged her with him before the Veela blindly sent down fireballs at their last spot. They had to reach the borders of the Anti-Apparition Jinxes - he was under no illusion that the rabble he had with him was able to stand up to a dedicated attack from above. Just as he was pulling out a shrunken broom, another Death Eater flew towards them. He recognized Hortensius’s Cleansweep 7.

The wizard was hugging the ground. Smart - taking to the sky was suicide with several Veela circling above, ready to send fireballs at them. Keith unshrunk his own broom and mounted it, then helped Hannah get on it as well.

Around the barn the thugs who had rushed in were getting hammered with curses from the ground and fireballs from the air. Apparently none of them had been smart enough to provide fog as cover. Instead several fools were sending curses up into the night sky. Keith doubted they were even seeing who they cast at. One of them was hit by a spell and went down screaming while barbed tentacles immobilized him. Another was flying straight for the forest, blindly casting blasting curses left and right. Suddenly a wall rose from the earth in front of him, and he flew straight into it. Keith could hear the crack of his broom breaking through the sounds of battle, and saw that the wizard was hit by two fireballs right after he hit the ground. If the impact hadn’t killed him, then he was surely dead now.

That had been a very powerful spell, Keith realised. The wall ran across the entire field. Another sign that this wasn’t an attack by Aurors or Hit-Wizards. He had been about to fly towards the forest himself, the closest cover from the Veela in the air, but changed course. The fields it was! If they were fast enough they could dodge the fireballs and curses thrown at them.

Another thug had had the same idea, and was flying ahead of them. The wizard probably had jumped on his broom at the first sign of trouble, Keith thought. He shouldn’t fault the man, but he did it anyway. Coward! Then suddenly, the wizard was thrown off his broom. He hit the ground, yelling, and before he could get up, an animal pounced him. A few fireballs hitting the ground near them illuminated the scene for an instant, and Keith realised with horror that the Grim had torn the man’s throat out. The bloodied snout of the monster parted, revealing gleaming teeth, as it seemed to stare at him, and Keith changed course again.

Veela and the Grim! What was next, dragons? Hortensius was following Keith, despite the fact that he could have flown faster since he was not loaded down with a passenger. He was a good, loyal wizard. They were far enough away to have outrun the anti-apparition jinxes. Keith grabbed Hannah and apparated away. Or tried to - he failed.

How was this possible? He felt his stomach fill with dread. He was being chased, tracked. There were only two wizards that powerful in Britain, he knew that! The Dark Lord, and Dumbledore! More walls rose to bar his way, and fireballs rained down on them.

This time he flew up. He couldn’t keep to the ground if Dumbledore was here. He’d rather face a flock of Veela than that wizard! He didn’t get far though - his broom suddenly stopped in the air. Keith leaped off an instant before a fireball hit the broom and Hannah. He managed to cast a cushioning spell before he hit the ground. He wasn’t fast enough to do the same for Hannah, who was trailing flames while she was falling. Her screams cut off when she hit the ground.

Keith started running. He had to get out of that damned anti-apparition jinx’s range. He glanced behind him, checking for pursuit. He only saw Hortensius, desperately trying to avoid fireballs and curses. The man was weaving through the air like a professional seeker chasing a snitch. He even managed to send a few curses back at his attackers, but Keith knew he’d not escape. Not when everyone seemed to be focusing on the wizard.

Almost everyone - a few curses flew at Keith, from the side. He shielded one, the next broke his shield, and the third was absorbed by his robe’s enchantments. That allowed him to dive forward in a roll, avoid the next curse, and retaliate.

He sent a Bone-Breaking Curse and a Blood-Boiling Curse at the caster, hammering at his shield. He was almost clear now, he had to be. He cast two Blasting Curse at the area around the attacker, and noticed that the man was sent reeling.

“Avada Kedavra!” His Killing Curse went straight at the man, but a wall rising from the earth stopped it. He had caught the attention of Dumbledore again! In the air, Hortensius was about to use the opportunity, and break through the enemies trying to box him in.

If Dumbledore went back to attack Hortensius, he wouldn’t be able to stop Keith. He decided to risk it. He disillusioned himself and started running, expecting to be hit in the back any second, and trying to apparate away each step. After ten yards, he heard Hortensius scream, and knew his last good man was done for. After twenty more yards, he finally managed to apparate.

*****

Albus Dumbledore walked through Hogsmeade towards the ‘Hog’s Head Inn’. He could have taken the Floo, but this way he would be seen, and his presence would hopefully lessen the fear that had the population in its grip. Sadly, it didn’t seem to be working - the streets were almost empty, and those he saw greeted him and hurried on.

It was understandable, with the Daily Prophet reporting three more attacks by Death Eaters last night. Three more homes struck, one of them destroyed, two others saved by the timely arrival of Ministry forces, but not without more wizards and witches wounded and killed during the fighting. There had been a fourth attack, he knew, one handled far more successfully, but that was not public knowledge. And depending on the results of his upcoming talk with his brother, information about it would never be revealed.

He entered the inn and felt the stares of those present at this early hour on him. A few nodded at him, but no one spoke to him. Aberforth wasn’t behind the bar, but came up from the cellar at the same time Albus reached the bar. His brother didn’t say anything, just met his eyes, grabbed a butterbeer and then went to the corner table that now seemed to have become ‘theirs’. It was progress, of sorts, compared to getting treated like a stranger or a customer, Albus thought. It gave him a sliver of hope that he might yet reconcile with his brother.

After they had sat down and cast a number of exotic privacy charms, Aberforth opened the bottle and took a swig. A brief flick of his wand wiped his mouth. Albus wondered briefly why he didn’t let charms on his robe do that for him. Then he pushed the thought away and focused on his brother’s tale.

“We’ve hit the Dark Lord’s forces last night, as you undoubtedly already heard,” his brother started in his gruff voice.

“Indeed. Though Sirius was a bit scarce in his report.” Albus nodded, smiling slightly. Colorful, but limited to the battle itself, where the aftermath was much more important. The Head of the Black Family hadn’t been present for that though.

“He and his birds did well,” Aberforth admitted. “Hit them hard and fast, and kept them from escaping through the sky. Sirius probably had to pick out some Death Eater parts from his teeth afterwards.”

While the innkeeper chuckled, Albus kept his expression neutral. Sirius couldn’t be faulted for using his animagus form in battle. The Grim was not just a powerful form, but also bound to demoralize their enemies, especially the superstitious ones. But he couldn’t help feeling that the wizard took it a bit too far.

“Most of the Death Eaters were rabble barely worth the cost of their wand. Couldn’t cast straight, nor think on their feet. They were beaten before we even attacked. Two were different though. One tried to evacuate one of their wounded. Another covered him, then led us a on merry chase through the sky before we got him. That allowed the other to escape, though the witch he had been helping was killed.” Aberforth explained. “I thought we had gotten the leader, but apparently, that one escaped. Quite surprising, seeing one of them risking his life for others.”

Albus nodded. If he hadn’t been talking to his brother, then he would have mentioned that even Death Eaters could show loyalty, courage and even love. But that would just antagonize Aberforth, and rob him of an excuse for letting their main quarry escape.

“So, we captured the other, and a few of the thugs. Those were useless - they’re the dregs of Britain. The Dark Lord’s scraping the bottom of the barrel if he’s recruiting that kind of wands.” Aberforth said.

“Given the losses his forces have taken in the last months, that was to be expected. The number of wizards and witches willing to fight for the Dark Lord is limited,” the Headmaster agreed. “Unfortunately, the Ministry’s forces have not remained unscathed either.” And neither had the civilians, he mentally added.

“He’ll recruit on the continent then. There’s enough scum for him to use as curse fodder. You might want to do some recruiting yourself, if only to deprive him of the better and more experienced wands.” Aberforth took another swig from his bottle while he studied Albus.

The Headmaster sighed. His brother was likely correct - he had far more and closer contacts among the mercenaries, given his history - but Albus didn’t like it. To hire mercenaries, foreigners at that… it would be a new step in this war, another escalation. The Magical Balkans showed where that kind of war could lead to. And yet he did not have any choice. To let the Dark Lord freely recruit was to court disaster. “I am forced to agree with this.”

“Don’t sacrifice them though,” Aberforth glared at him.

Albus didn’t wince at the venom in his brother’s voice. He was tempted to plead his case again, to make his brother understand what had happened, what he had done, what he could have done, but refrained himself from doing so. It wouldn’t work - he had tried it too often in the past. “They’ll be treated like everyone else fighting the Dark Lord,” he said instead.

Slowly, grudgingly, Aberforth nodded. He probably had expected, maybe wanted, another argument. But they couldn’t afford that.

“So, what did the prisoner reveal?” Albus didn’t ask if he had talked; Aberforth had the means to make him talk.

“His name is Hortensius Gimble. He was hired by Keith Yennington, back before the Dark Lord was revealed, and has stuck with him. Keith seems to be a marked Death Eater, if I correctly interpreted the clues from Gimble.

“Can I have a memory of those clues?” Albus asked, his voice as mild and neutral as he could make it.

“Yes.” Aberforth ground out. “As long as you keep your opinions to yourself.”

Albus conceded that with a nod. The two of them had different views on how to interrogate prisoners. Violently disagreeing views, once, in the past.

“We’ve got places and some more names, but haven’t acted on it yet. If Yennington thinks Gimble was killed instead of captured, he might not change his habits too much.” Aberforth expanded. “He seems fixated in those two Aurors, Kenneth Fenbrick and Bertha Limmington. I’ve got both of them in a safehouse the Ministry doesn’t know about. We also know the source for Yennington’s inside knowledge. It’s a clerk named Timothy Brannigan, who apparently doesn’t know he’s spilling information.”

Abus raised his eyebrows at that. “Is he that naive, or is there something else at work?”

“Veritaserum and Obliviation,” his brother explained.

Albus nodded. That would do the trick. That was why secrecy was of utmost importance in this war.

“That’s all,” Aberforth finished his bottle.

“Thank you.” Albus didn’t ask what had become of Gimble. He nodded at his brother, and got up. There was more work waiting for him at Hogwarts. And he had to find out if and how much young Malfoy was funding the Dark Lord’s campaign.

*****

Keith Yennington wanted to rage. To vent his frustration, to make someone, anyone pay for his defeat. For the loss of his last two competent wands, Hannah and Hortensius. They had been with him since the start of this, or at least close to it. Hortensius might have been his only friend, even. And now they were dead because of those cursed Aurors! And Dumbledore! He still couldn’t believe he had managed to escape the second-most powerful wizard in Britain!

The feeling of pride was fleeting though, and anger, rage and hatred filled him again. He conjured two statues, shaped like Aurors, and aimed his wand at them. Then he froze, shuddering. He couldn’t. The noise would alert others. And he was better than that. He was a mercenary, not some thug ruled by his emotion. Drawing a deep, shivering breath, he lowered his wand and closed his eyes.  
  
He was currently staying in a bolthole, the room of a low-life in Knockturn Alley who had met his end when he had tried to betray Keith. His more comfortable safehouse might be compromised, if his enemies had captured Hortensius. He hoped the man had died instead. Not just for his own sake, but for Hortensius’s as well. It was better to die in combat, fighting, than to be butchered as a helpless prisoner.

He conjured a seat for himself and sank into it. Until he knew if Hortensius had been captured, he couldn’t visit his usual haunts. Another spell vanished the statues. At least the Dark Lord would be pleased - his wands, those he hadn’t led into a trap, had achieved most of their objectives. More dead Aurors or Hit-Wizards, more dead mudbloods. Their own losses had stayed within expectations, and the survivors had gained valuable experience. He’d not get punished again.

He’d never get punished again, he swore to himself. And those Aurors would pay. Pay for every slight, every setback, everything that had ever gone wrong for him.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick hadn’t slept for longer than a few hours. He was still too wired, too angry. They had been so close to catching Yennington, but he had escaped, again! Twice that criminal had slipped out of their grasp in the last second, despite a good plan and surprise on their side. At least his colleagues didn’t know about it, that would have been bad for his reputation. Bertha didn’t count, of course.

He entered the kitchen in their safehouse, and saw that the spy was up already. She was wearing a more sensible robe today though, if still alluring, so Bertha probably had gotten through to her. His partner could be very persuasive, if she wanted to. Kenneth summoned a pot of tea for himself, and a cup - he wasn’t touching her particular blend - as well as some toast, when he noticed she was looking him over.

“What?”

“I am just checking if you were lying when you said you were not hurt. You looked a bit singed last night,” Mathilda said, with that damned smile of hers.

“I wasn’t singed.” A couple spells had taken care of that before he had returned. He and Bertha had checked each other as well.

“I might have heard about the battle already, and how you got a bit too close to a fireball,” the courtesan admitted.

Kenneth grimaced. That hadn’t been one of their best performances. But Aurors were not generally working with Veelas, nor were they using tactics better suited to Hit-Wizards. Aurors were trained to take criminals alive, not kill them as quickly as possible. Though of course they could do that too, if they wanted to.

“Kenneth got burned by a Veela. Nothing new, just a bit more literal than usual,” Bertha added. Kenneth hadn’t noticed her coming into the kitchen. He must be more tired than he thought. He turned towards his partner, and forgot what he had been about to say. That was not a sensible robe! He couldn’t help staring for a moment.

Shaking her head, Bertha floated some toast and tea over to herself - and she took the spy’s pot. Kenneth expected the courtesan to protest, but she just smirked. Had something happened between the two witches? A bit ago he’d have imagined quite the lurid scene, but now…

He decided to focus on their work instead: “So, we found our leak.”

“One of them. Hardly the only one. If the Ministry was a cauldron, it would be used as a sieve.” Mathilda threw in. He glared at her, but she only raised her cup in a mockery of a toast to him.

“We captured Yennington’s right hand, and found out where he lives and what work he does.”

“Before the Death Eater sadly died from wounds taken during the fighting.” Mathilda further needled him.

Kenneth ignored the reminder of what Aberforth Dumbeldore had done to the wizard. He had been a Death Eater, and would have been executed anyway. And his death was needed to capture Yennington, or he’d know they knew much more about him. “So, now all we have to do is wait until the scumbag returns to his routine?”

“Yes. We can spend the time training,” Mathilda smirked at them, and Kenneth saw Bertha stiffen in response. After a moment, the courtesan added. “Abe will be swinging by later, to teach you some of his tricks.”

Kenneth wasn’t certain if getting trained by Dumbledore’s brother, who had been terrifying last night, easily killing half a dozen of the thugs by himself, or by Mathilda was worse.

*****

In his office, Albus Dumbledore sighed. He had hoped that Lucius’s death at the hands of Severus would have cut the Dark Lord off from the Malfoy Family’s fortune. Narcissa had been a smart witch at Hogwarts, and she should have seen that supporting Voldemort was dooming her family, just as it had doomed her husband. At the time he had felt that the loss of Lucius’s influence and contacts at the Ministry had been more important anyway.

But now, with Aberforth’s information about the foreign mercenaries, knowing whether Malfoy’s gold was actually financing all those mercenaries who were bleeding the Ministry’s forces had become a priority. He’d have to proceed carefully of course. Even with the war causing so many deaths, probing the mind of a Head of Family or their regent was no small matter. Especially with Narcissa playing the poor, grieving widow whose husband had been killed by the Dark Lord’s minion.

And yet, the Headmaster was optimistic. Usually, the children of the more questionable families were not taken into full confidence by their parents until they had left Hogwarts. He doubted anyone working for the Dark Lord would risk his crimes ending up exposed through someone interrogating or tricking their children at Hogwarts. Horace also hadn’t found any students working for the Dark Lord, even though Albus was sure more than a few were sympathizing with Voldemort’s stated goals. Draco though was the Head of his family, and as spoiled and arrogant as the Slytherin was, Dumbledore hoped he hadn’t let Narcissa keep him in the dark for his own good.

But knowing was one thing, doing something about it another. Trying to persecute a widow and their child as Death Eaters might not be advisable at the moment. If either or both had truly joined the Dark Lord, then a more subtle although more lethal way of dealing with them might be needed.

As much as he hated to admit it, compared to the deaths their gold could cause in the hands of the Dark Lord, two lives were a small price to pay. It would weigh heavily on his soul, but not as much as letting innocents die.

*****


	31. Hope and Regrets

**Chapter 31: Hope and Regrets**

The last lesson of the Hogwarts Self-defense Club before the Eostra Break confirmed Hermione Granger’s worst expectations. A number of witches had copied that twit Greengrass and wore robes that would be considered daring even for a 6th year. There was so much skin showing, it looked more like some attempt at a fertility ritual than a defense lesson when they gathered for the introduction.

Although she had to correct herself - the fertility rituals of the Faithful she had read about usually were done while in the nude, and those hussies didn’t go that far. Some sixth years came close though, and the witch was certain though that they’d like to try such a ritual anyway, with her Harry.

She was almost glad that Parkinson didn’t try to catch Harry’s attention, but was still aiming for Ron. Only almost, though - Ron already had the thankless job of shielding Harry from the advances of those witches, and the Slytherin witch hitting on him was only adding to his stress. She was up to something, but so far the curse hadn’t been triggered, so she didn’t mean to harm Harry. And she wasn’t wearing a few strategically placed scraps of fabric and illusions either.

Of course, with more competition, Greengrass was now trying twice as hard. The blonde was standing in the first row, and if she pushed her barely covered chest out any further, she’d probably break her spine. Despite years of experience in acting the dutiful, obedient retainer in public, Hermione would have had to struggle to keep from scowling openly at the twit, if not for a little detail the hussies didn’t know.

“But before that, we’ll start with another round of dodge and shield training,” Harry concluded his speech. “Our usual instructors are unfortunately currently unavailable to help us out.” Some of the slower students cheered at the announcement. The cheers died down though as Harry continued: “My wand and my friends though will be taking their place, and casting the stinging hexes during the practise.”

With that, Hermione, Luna, Aicha, Neville, Ginny, Susan and Padma stepped up to face the other students.

Usually, Hermione would have resented the wording that singled her out as Harry’s retainer instead of his friend. Today though the witch was barely annoyed. She smiled politely at the assembled students, and kept her expression pleasantly bland when the assorted purebloods trying to poach Harry realised just who would be hexing them. And where she’d be aiming her hexes.

Hermione glanced over at Padma, who wasn’t quite used to hiding her feelings. The Indian witch was smiling ferally at Parkinson, who was looking distinctly less smug than before. Not as bad as Edgecombe though. Greengrass was still smiling, but Davis looked like a deer caught in headlights for a moment.

Oh yes, Hermione thought, raising her wand, this would be a very enjoyable lesson. Cathartic even.

*****

Draco Malfoy smiled as he once again walked towards the empty classroom where Edgecombe would be waiting for him, ready to report on what she had seen - and done - in Potter’s little club. He had a couple books in his bag, and parchment - just in case he had to claim that he was meeting her for some tutoring.

The Ravenclaw witch was there, trying to hide as expected, and looking even more uncomfortable than usual. Good.

“Good evening, Miss Edgecombe,” he said while closing the door.

“Good evening, Mister Malfoy,” the witch pressed out through clenched teeth. Draco smiled widely.

“Please sit down,” he said, after he had let her standing for a minute while he had slowly taken out his books, parchment, and the Self-Writing Quill. Mother had asked for a more literal report, and he’d provide. He would add his insights after the transcript.

The witch was slowly sitting down, as if she expected to feel pain. She didn’t seem to be in pain though. Curious.

“So, what happened in this session?” he asked. He was just a student asking for some help. It was, perhaps a bit underhanded to try to profit from a rival’s tutoring like that, but by no means criminal. Another layer of deception, as befitting a Slytherin.

“We practiced dodging,” the witch spat out. “Professor Lupin and Mister Black couldn’t attend, so Potter’s friends cast stinging hexes at us during the training.”

Draco chuckled. Her attitude made more sense now. She probably hadn’t been able to sit down before the Matron had treated her. That was quite amusing. And the absence of the usual tutors was something the Dark Lord would be interested in as well. “Did the mudblood hex you too?”

“Yes.” Her cheek twitched as she admitted to have been abused by Granger.

Draco felt torn between enjoying the pain and humiliation the girl had gone through, and was suffering right now, and feeling outrage at a mudblood overstepping her bounds. Potter shouldn’t have ordered a mudblood to hex purebloods, that simply was poor form. But what could one expect from a parchment pureblood? On the other hand, it was delightfully humiliating. To have a mudblood abuse a pureblood blood traitor… he pondered the possibilities while he let Edgecombe stew some more. Finally, he deigned to address her again: “How did the attending students perform?”

“Poorly. Granger and Patil were the worst, but all of Potters friends cast a mean hex, and were very precise with their spells. Only Potter and Weasley didn’t hex anyone and stuck to instructing instead.”

“Oh? Did you perform poorly as well?” Draco asked in a menacing tone. He already knew the answer from her reaction.

“I was doing better than most witches.” She was trembling now.

Draco shook his head. “That’s not good enough. You need to catch their attention.”

“Those witches who did got hexed worse!” She was almost crying now.

“Stinging hexes are nothing!” Draco sneered at the witch. Even for a half-blood, she was pathetic. He had suffered pain curses that would have broken lesser wizards! “Curses on the other hand will do worse.” He smiled menacingly.

“That’s what Potter said!” Edgecombe blurted out, then covered her mouth with one hand.

“Did he? Interesting.” Draco leaned back. “Did anything else happen other than a few blood traitors hexing sheep?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Potter still didn’t react to the attempts of other witches to seduce him.”

“Hm. I see.” He didn’t, not yet. But he would. For a moment, he missed Pansy. She had known how to interpret such gossip. Then he sneered at his own weakness. She had chosen muggle filth over him! Pansy… “What about Pan... Parkinson?”

Edgecombe hesitated.

“Out with it!” he yelled at her, slapping a hand down on the desk in front of him, and she flinched back.

“She… she was trying to get close to… Weasley!” the witch answered, cringing.

“Weasley? She … I break up with her, and she starts running after that blood traitor?” He was gaping. How low could that witch sink, to go after such scum? To think he had ever considered her a good future wife… he shuddered, revulsed. With an effort worthy of Merlin himself, he controlled his temper and glared at the shaking half-blood in front of him. “How did he react?”

“He was polite, but didn’t seem to, ah, return the interest.”

Hot rage was bubbling up inside him. He wouldn’t be able to control his temper much longer, not after this outrageous humiliation. “Get out before I curse you!”

Edgecombe fled, shaking like a leaf and with tears running down her cheeks. Draco started blowing up desks before she had closed the door behind her. He had to vent his rage, but mere desks, mere things were not enough. He needed something that could feel pain, could bleed, could scream…

He suddenly saw something red flash at him, and before he could react, the world went dark.

*****

Harry Potter walked out of the Floo connection, finally home after hours on the Hogwarts Express, one of them spent patrolling. If not for Dumbledore and Sirius pulling strings, he and his friends would have had to wait even longer with the hundreds of students and parents who had to go through the Ministry’s floo checkpoint. He sighed. The war, never far from his mind, seemed far closer in London than at Hogwarts.

“Already missing the school, Harry? Hermione is a bad influence on you!” his godfather teased him, grinning widely.

“I was just struck how the war changed how we travel to Hogwarts and back. King’s Cross Station felt more like an armed holding camp than a station,” he explained. Draco disappearing from Hogwarts probably hadn’t helped either, though why anyone would believe the Dark Lord had kidnapped him was beyond Harry. The foul git almost certainly had ran away to join Voldemort’s forces. Or to try to - even the Dark Lord probably had standards. Although Draco would make good cannon fodder.

“There was talk about sending the students through the Floo Network from Hogwarts instead of letting them taking the train. Easier to protect them that way. Tradition won out - this time.” Sirius shrugged, as if saying he didn’t expect that to last. Behind them, Hermione exited the Floo, followed by Remus.

The witch sighed as well, but she sounded more relieved than contemplative. Harry saw her posture relax and her face change from a polite mask to an honest if slightly sad smile as she stopped playing his retainer and started to act as his girlfriend again.

Contrary to other vacations, her parents hadn’t met her at the station. The Grangers were still on their world cruise, and would remain so for the foreseeable future. They’d meet them over the summer, but the Eostra Break was too short to justify arranging such a trip. There were simply too many security precautions that would have to be taken to keep everyone safe and to avoid blowing their cover.

A fact Harry was not unhappy about, if he was honest. As selfish as it was, he wanted Hermione near him. He reached out and took her hand to cheer the witch up.

“Kreacher has prepared the cage for Master’s Godson’s Slave.”

And that was it for his attempt to cheer his girlfriend up. He could feel Hermione grow stiff as she forced herself to smile at the house elf. “Thank you, Kreacher, but I’ll be sleeping in my usual room.” The evil house elf nodded, grumbling what was certainly insults under his breath, and walked away, taking their floating school trunks with him.

Harry glanced over at Sirius and Remus, to make sure the older wizards weren’t grinning. He knew they had a bet on how long it would take Hermione to stop ‘understanding’ the ‘poor brainwashed house elf’, and start cursing him, but he really didn’t want to begin his vacation with an argument. And that would be inevitable, should Hermione notice their expressions. Fortunately, Valérie arrived in the entrance hall at that moment, wearing one of her usual short and flimsy ‘house robes’, and distracted everyone.

“’ello! I ‘ope you ‘ad a good trip.” The Veela embraced them all, with Sirius getting hugged last, but for the longest time. In fact, even after half a minute they they didn’t look like they’d plan to separate anytime soon.

Harry was about to cough, to interrupt them, but the look of happiness on his godfather’s face stopped him. Instead he took Hermione’s hand again, and quietly led her out of the hall.

*****

Remus Lupin entered the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. Sirius and Valérie were probably still lost to the world in the entrance hall. His friend was spending far less time as Padfoot these days. He was happy for him, but couldn’t help feel a bit jealous as well. More than a bit, to be honest.

“‘ello Remus,” Chantal greeted him. The Veela was looking at the meal Kreacher was preparing, adding some touches of her own. Remus saw the raw slabs of meat ready to be grilled, and felt his mouth water. It was too close to the full moon. He knew he could not transform, would not transform during the day, but he sure felt like he would at times. Shivering, he turned away.

Before he could leave the kitchen, Chantal stepped up to him and offered him a raw ham sandwich. At his questioning look - he felt more like growling than talking - she shrugged in that French way, as Sirius called it. “People come to the kitchen if they’re ‘ungry, n’est-ce pas?”

He nodded. A few bites later, he felt as if the beast lurking inside him had been sated somewhat. Then he felt embarrassed - he probably had devoured the food like an animal in the Veela’s eye.

If she had been offended she didn’t show it though. “Are they still at it?”

“Sirius and Valérie? Yes.” Remus nodded. Seeing her smile, he couldn’t help but comment. “Valérie seems to have grown very close to him. And he to her.”

It wasn’t quite a question, but she answered what he was hinting at anyway. “You wonder ‘ow the rest of us is going to react to that.”

He nodded.

Chantal leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing her legs. Remus couldn’t help staring - her robe barely reached her thighs. He should be used to such a display, it was quite common in Sirius’s home, but it still affected him. It had to be his beast, so close to the full moon still. She had noticed, and smirked. “You expect jealousy?”

“It would be a normal reaction.” Together with insults and hexes. That’s how such things tended to play out at Hogwarts, both during his time as a student and as a teacher.

She giggled. “It would be. I assume you’d not be fooled by some fantastic tale of ‘ow Veela are looking for their chosen mates, and once found, other Veela would not dare interfere with such a sacred bond?”

Remus chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t.” Once, he had. As a teenager. But there was no need to mention that. He knew more about magical creatures these days. And he liked to think he was less gullible.

“The truth is, Sirius is a charming, very charming wizard. And so skilled…” she trailed off, her tongue briefly wetting her lips, and Remus felt his beast stir again. “Many wizards boast like ‘e did, when we met in France. Not many boast with such ‘umour. And few are those who can make good their claims. We ‘ad a very good time in France. Nothing more, nothing less.” She giggled. “I suspect ‘e wasn’t entirely serious when ‘e invited us to his ‘ome, and we accepted in part because it seemed like a challenge.”

That would explain a number of things, Remus thought. His jealousy did increase some though, upon hearing that Sirius’s boasts were not just that.

“But as we spent more time ‘ere, it became rather obvious that while we all grew closer, both Sirius and our youngest cousin grew more attached to each other. They seem to ‘ave a sort of rapport.” Chantal smiled wistfully. “Something more serious, you could say,” she added with a giggle.

Remus groaned at the pun. But he owed it to his friend to ask: “But… are you sure it’s healthy? Sirius is… still dealing with the effects of his time in Azkaban.” As always when Remus thought of his friend’s ordeal, he felt the burning shame of not having trusted him, not having cared enough to find out what had happened, not having wanted to face him. He owed Sirius so much, he had to make his friend wouldn’t be hurt further.

“We are all aware of ‘is issues. Is it ‘ealthy, as you ask?” Once again she shrugged, the movement causing her robe to slip a bit. Remus forced himself to look at her eyes, and not at her bosom. “Valérie is the most caring of us. She claims she sees more than a very ‘urt wizard in need of ‘er help. I ‘ope she is being ‘onest - with us, and with ‘erself. So far, we are still, as you might say, sharing. That might change, some of us might meet other people, we might grow apart again, or keep sharing. No one but seers can predict the future, and their prophecies are seldom clear until they ‘ave come to pass already.”

Remus nodded again. “I guess I can’t ask for more.”

“It’s enough. We might die any time we ‘ead out in this war. We should take what ‘appiness we can find.”

Remus almost winced at that comment. She must have noticed his reaction, since she leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder. “You too, might think about this.”

Remus felt his beast stir again, and fought it back. A tad stiffly, he answered: “I might.” Turning away, he headed to his room until he had calmed down.

*****

“It’s getting late, Hermione”

Hermione Granger looked up from the tome on blood magic she was reading in the Black Family Library. “Hm?”

Harry smiled indulgently at her. “It’s past midnight already.”

She checked her watch. He was right. Time had flown, as it usually did when she was reading. Sighing she closed the tome and stood up, stretching. A glance revealed that Harry was staring, and she smiled, very pleased. In a house with four barely-clad Veela, any normal girl would have some doubts about her own appearance, and seeing her boyfriend’s reaction was quite reassuring as well as gratifying. And she didn’t have to wear a see-through robe either.

Then she realised she had all but ignored Harry for hours while she did her research, and felt guilty. “Sorry,” she said, gathering her notes. Harry knew her well enough to know what she was apologizing for; she did it often enough.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s important work.” He waited, smiling, as she stored her notes in her enchanted book bag.

She took a last look around the library, to check she had not left anything, a habit from the Hogwarts library and other public libraries. This library certainly fit its name: Dark shelves, a thick, dark carpet, and the wooden panels visible on the few parts of the walls that were not covered with shelves had darkened with age so much, they almost looked black.

Suddenly, she was overcome with a matching mood. “Did you ever consider just leaving?”

“Hm?” Harry cocked his head.

“I mean, running away. Fake our deaths, leave Britain, leave this war,” Hermione made a sweeping gesture that encompassed not just the room, but the country behind the walls.

“And leave our families?” Harry shook his head.

“We could run away with them,” Hermione countered.

“And fake everyone’s death?” Harry sounded almost amused.

“Blow the place up. Leave some fake bodies.” There were some interesting and disturbing spells in this library that would do the job, the witch knew. Just in case there were not enough Death Eaters around to serve as decoys with polyjuice.

“And this?” Harry pointed at his forehead.

Hermione grimaced. “That I am still working on.”

“We wouldn’t be safe as long as he lives,” Harry stated with conviction.

“Yes, and fleeing while we’re fighting a war wouldn’t be right,” the witch agreed with him.

“But you’ve made some plans anyway.” He knew her really well.

“Just in case.” If the war went badly. Or if the war was over, and they still hadn’t found a way to be together without having to live a lie.

Harry nodded, and held out his hand. “Let’s head to bed. Before Kreacher blocks your door and you have to sleep in my room.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. The misguided elf might just do that, should he overhear them and decide to interpret it as an order. Kreacher could be quite creative when it came to such things. It wasn’t his fault, of course. Sirius’s mother was to blame for the elf’s attitude.

She wanted to hex the foul creature anyway.

*****

“Wheee!”

Harry smiled indulgently at Luna. The blonde witch was bending this way and that, trying to see how she looked in the muggle jeans and pink t-shirt she was wearing between pulling at the fabric. Apparently, she had temporarily forgotten about mirrors. Or just acted like it - one could seldom tell with her.

“Is she always like that?” Dudley asked, sharing Harry’s amusement. The two of them, like Neville and Ron, were wearing jeans and various shirts. Ron had gotten an orange t-shirt, of course, but hadn’t tried to get the ‘Cannons’ logo on it. Yet.

Harry nodded. “Yes, D, she is. Thanks again for coming with us.” His cousin had heard of their plans to go out in muggle London, and had offered to show them a few nice spots. Harry had accepted the offer at once - Dudley was the same age as he and his friends, and would know more appropriate clubs than Sirius. Or, as Hermione had put it, ‘less inappropriate clubs for teenagers’.

“Hey, I have to thank you. Going out with so many beautiful girls? My friends will be so jealous.” Dudley chuckled, nodding towards the rest of the group. Aicha, Ginny, Neville, Susan, Ron and Padma were standing around Hermione, who was checking their appearance for ‘appropriate muggleness’, in Ron’s words.

“Do Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon know about this?” Harry asked, in a lower voice.

“They know I’m going out with friends in London,” his cousin answered.

“Technically true,” Harry nodded.

“I would never lie to my parents,” Dudley grinned broadly, and almost as convincingly as he had when he and Harry had been questioned about the disappearance of the cake Petunia had baked for Aunt Marge’s visit when they had been six. He had lost a bit of weight since Harry had seen him last time. Boxing seemed to agree with him. Harry’s cousin probably would never be slim, but he was now burly-looking rather than fat. Between Dudley and Ron, other teenagers looking for trouble would hopefully pick someone else as a target.

Of course they were not going out all by themselves. Harry glanced towards the latest addition to their group, and the most shockingly dressed - for muggles. Nymphadora, in the shape of a teenager with long, black and blonde hair, wearing fishnets and a black leather miniskirt with a leather and mesh top, noticed and grinned at him.

“So, what are you two plotting?” she asked, coming over to them. She claimed she had picked both her form and clothes with the utmost care, but Harry wasn’t sure her gothic punk look had taken that much time.

“Nothing, Miss Doppleganger,” Dudley answered, causing her to frown.

“I told you, I’m a metamorphmagus, not a ‘doppelganger’!” she huffed, putting her fists on her hips.

Harry’s cousin shrugged. “Sorry, you just look so much like one, I get confused.”

Nymphadora stared at him. “I can change my body to look like anyone I want, and you say I look like a doppelganger?”

Dudley nodded. “Exactly!”

Nymphadora blinked, then stomped off shaking her head. Harry shook his head. “If she doesn’t protect us as she should after this, I am blaming you.”

Dudley grinned at him. “She messed with me first.”

“That she did,” Harry agreed. Nymphadora would get back at his cousin, he knew that, but he didn’t feel like mentioning it.

Hermione had finished her inspection of their friends, and joined them for a brief respite from the hail of questions aimed at her. Judging by the look she shot Harry, she hadn’t been amused by him leaving her to deal with that alone. He wasn’t moved much - he knew she loved to lecture.

“Alright. Everyone is presentable, and should be sufficiently coached in teen culture so any mistakes will be blamed on being slightly drunk and from the countryside,” she summarized while running her wand over her black miniskirt and white top to smooth them out. Harry knew she was missing her enchanted robes. He shared the sentiment; going out without all the convenient charms on his clothes almost felt like being naked, but they hadn’t had time to get those charms and the protections they needed.

“You plan to get drunk?” Dudley asked, sounding slightly concerned.

“No,” Hermione assured him, then pointed at Luna, who was lifting her shirt up to check her underwear. “But it’s a better explanation for some of the stuff they’ll be doing than drugs.”

Dudley stared, then nodded. “I guess so.”

“Picture time!” Sirius yelled, holding up a wizard camera. “Gather together so I can take your picture! It’s traditional!”

Harry glanced at Hermione, who shrugged. “I’ve given up on trying to teach him the differences between an American prom and a night in town in London. As long as it makes him happy…”

Harry was rather certain Sirius knew the differences well enough, at least after Hermione’s lecture, and was simply teasing the witch. He didn’t say anything though. He was also rather certain Hermione had realised the same thing, but was ignoring it.

The group gathered as ordered and spent the next few minutes posing for Sirius, who was taking about a dozen pictures until he was satisfied that the ‘muggle tradition’ had been sufficiently upheld.

“Remember, kids - me and Moony will keep an eye on you from afar, so don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!” the animagus declared.

“Anything you, or anything Remus wouldn’t do?” Ron asked with a grin. He earned an elbow to the side from his girlfriend for that. “Ow! Just asking for a bit of clarification.”

“Me.” Sirius and Remus said at the same time, then exchanged glares.

“That’s what’s protecting us…” Hermione muttered under her breath, but Harry saw that she was smiling.

Harry whispered back “Well, Valérie, Chantal, Laure and Eugénie will be closer.” Supposedly Sirius didn’t want himself and Remus to look like ‘dirty old men stalking kids’, and so had asked the Veela to follow them into the clubs aimed at teenagers and tweens. Harry wasn’t sure if that would work out well. At least the Veela would draw attention away from their group, even if they were ‘dressing down’, as Chantal called it, for this.

They still looked like they were models clubbing in Paris, of course. Dudley had commented on that about half a dozen times so far.

“You know, Harry, you need to have one of them ‘drive’ you to our house this summer. Piers would die with jealousy.” Make that seven times.

On the other hand, the Veela’s presence would help the other teenage wizards and witches to blend in. And that probably was why Sirius had organized their trip this way.

Harry snorted. His godfather was sharper and more thoughtful than he wanted to appear.

*****

Fetching a couple of drinks in a muggle club was quite the novel thing, Ron Weasley realised. Instead of simply summoning the stuff - and showing off how well you mastered the spell so you didn’t spill anything, unless of course you wanted to spill something by accident, say on a Slytherin - Ron actually had to to stand up and walk over to the bar and get them. And that meant walking through a room packed full of muggle teenagers, half of them dancing in the middle, the rest hanging around low tables and getting drunk. At least that’s what it looked like to him. Fortunately, Chantal and Eugénie were not currently dancing, Valérie had gone out ‘for some fresh air’, meaning, she was probably keeping Sirius company, and Laure was on the loo, which meant the dance floor wasn’t quite as crowded as before. You’d think the muggles had never seen a Veela before! And they hadn’t been wearing too revealing clothing either. Everyone was dressed rather conservatively, in his opinion. His mum would like to hear that.

He slipped between two guys standing at the bar and raised his arm until the bartender, a woman in her twenties with a nose ring and shredded clothes, looked at him. He smiled and raised his voice so she’d understand his order over the music and the buzzing sound of a roomful of talking teenagers: “One Coke, and one…” he briefly checked the list over the mirror for a drink he hadn’t tried yet, “... Sprite!” That sounded even a bit magical.

A minute later, two glasses were placed in front of him, and he paid the woman. Judging by the wide smile she flashed him he probably had overdone the tip again. He didn’t care - it was Sirius’s money, and the head of the Black Family certainly had more than enough. Merlin, Ron had more than enough to be generous to the staff. It wasn’t as if this was charity or something.

Grabbing the two glasses, he made his way back to their table, more carefully now. It wouldn’t do to spill half the drinks. Padma would be annoyed, she really liked Coca Cola. Ron had drunk Cokes before, but a few of the other drinks available here he had never tried until tonight. While he found the muggle drinks still a bit weird, they were tasty. Not as good as butterbeer, but probably on the same level as pumpkin juice. He had to admit though that the ice inside the drink was a novel idea.

He reached Padma and the others without spilling anything, and his girlfriend beamed at him when he handed her her glass. The wizard briefly looked around after sitting down next to her. Harry and Hermione were curled up on one of the seats. Not quite lost in their own world, but close. Understandable - they usually didn’t get to be so open with their affection in public. Ginny was talking to Neville - the poor boy hadn’t gotten any rest this evening, it seemed. Ron almost shook his head at that; in Neville’s place he’d have told his little sister to shut it long ago. Nymphadora was sitting next to them, watching the room. Susan was lounging next to Dudley, chatting animatedly with Harry’s cousin. Ron wasn’t sure what was up with that. Dudley was an alright bloke, for a muggle, but he wasn’t that interesting. And Luna was… broken broomsticks! Where was Luna?

Ron started to panic. One thing everyone of their group had quickly learned: Luna Lovegood was not to be left out of their sight in muggle London. The quirky blonde had a talent for starting trouble, and one almost-riot caused by her loud observations in the first pub they had visited had been enough for Ron to last for a year. Who’d have thought so many people would react so violently to being told that red was a better color than white for their shirts? Who’d wear a cockerel on their shirt anyway? Well, a few subtle spells and some generous rounds had defused the situation, which had been related to football or something according to Dudley. He hadn’t known football was so violent. And the less said about the ‘Unicorn Incident’ in the next pub the better. Or when Luna had discovered ripped jeans.

“Where’s Luna?” he asked, louder and maybe a bit higher pitched than needed.

Padma pointed at the dance floor. And there the blonde witch was, dancing enthusiastically with Aicha. He relaxed. Dancing was fine. Nothing to worry there. He couldn’t spot Aicha’s genie, so the little thing was either still in her handbag, or at least invisible instead of making muggles think they were seeing things. The situation was still under control then. Leaning back, he had to laugh.

“Hm? what’s so funny?” Padma asked, her glass already half-empty.

“Nothing. Just… if mum knew I was the most responsible one of the group on this trip…” he chuckled, and Padma joined him. For a bit, they simply sipped their drinks - well, he did, Padma was closer to guzzling down hers - and watched their two friends dance.

“There are so many muggles, I’d never had believed it if anyone had told me,” Padma remarked. Ron knew better than to mention that Hermione had told her, repeatedly. Hermione was generally not wrong, especially not about muggles, but Padma was a bit sensitive about it.

So he agreed instead. “Yes. So many packed pubs and clubs. And none of them are afraid. They don’t know there’s a war going on. It doesn’t concern them. They’re just enjoying the night. And their biggest worry is probably if the boy or girl they like likes them back.” He shook his head at the notion, then noticed Padma’s frown. Uh oh. What had he said now? He continued. “And you don’t have to worry about sneaky hexes from Slytherins either. Or potioned butterbeers. It’s just so safe here!”

“Hermione was quite insistent that we never leave our drinks unattended though,” Padma pointed out.

“Yes, she was, but again - they can’t quite banish the stuff into our drinks from across the room. It’s still safer than Hogsmeade, despite what the Headmaster says.” Ron finished his ‘Sprite’. Not bad, but he’d had better. “It’s almost perfect.”

“What’s missing then?” Padma asked.

“Magic,” Ron answered. His girlfriend nodded her agreement.

*****

Hermione Granger was happy. Happier than she had been for quite some time. She was sharing a seat with Harry - not quite in his lap, but close enough - and out in public without having to play the obedient retainer and hide her feelings. Luna was on the loose again, but Aicha was with her, and Ron seemed to be watching the blonde as well, so the witch felt justified enough not to care, and simply enjoy the opportunity to relax and be herself instead.

She rested her head on Harry’s shoulder, felt him adjust his pose a bit to make her more comfortable - and him as well - and sighed contentedly when his arm tightened around her waist. “Mh.”

The only slightly troublesome part of this marvelous outing - not counting Luna’s misadventures, those she had expected, if not the scale of them - was how close Susan and Dudley had gotten. And even that was a blessing in disguise - she had feared the redhead would try to butt in on her time with Harry. Still, her curiosity was aroused.

She shifted around a bit, and whispered into Harry’s ear. “What do you think Susan and Dudley are talking about?”

Harry turned his head slowly towards his cousin. “Hm. He’s probably asking her all sorts of questions about magic. You know how he is.”

That Hermione knew. For a self-proclaimed ‘bruiser and boxer’, Dudley was quite curious. She didn’t think it was just him asking the questions though. And while her boyfriend considered Susan a friend, Hermione wouldn’t put it past the redhead to use Dudley to get closer to Harry. Or at least get inside information. “She’s probably asking about all the embarrassing stories he knows about you,” she whispered, adding a giggle.

“D wouldn’t…“ Harry trailed off. “He would. Damn!”

She felt him tense up, and put her hand on his chest. “Relax. You can prank him later, probably with Nymphadora.” If Nymphadora still felt the need to - Dudley had been expecting some payback from her for the whole evening, and had chased away at least one girl when he had mistakenly assumed she was the metamorphmagus in disguise, there to prank him. The muggleborn witch closed her eyes. Of course Nymphadora would not think they were even; she was a Black after all. They didn’t do even.

She looked around. The Veela were still staying put, sort of, which meant the dancing floor was less crowded than when they had been dancing, even with Luna and Aicha attracting some attention. “Let’s dance, Harry!” she said while standing up, and pulling on his arm. With a chuckle, her boyfriend got up again, and they walked towards the dance floor. Hopefully, they’d play some slow music soon too.

Hermione was determined to enjoy this night as much as possible. So far it had been almost perfect. The only drawback was that she had to hide her magic.

She snorted at the thought - it seemed that no matter where she was in public, among muggles or wizards, she had to hide an important part of herself. Life just wasn’t fair.

*****

“Sirius? Do you have a moment?”

Sirius Black looked up from the Daily Prophet spread on the kitchen table in his home. The picture of Fudge he had been hunting around the page with a permanent marker used the opportunity to flee to another page.

“Of course, Hermione.” He smiled at the muggleborn witch. She had taken to wearing shorter, lighter robes, he noticed. Not nearly as skimpy as the attire of the other women in the house, but there was progress. He made a mental note to buy her a few robes more appropriate for her sixth year over the summer, and hoped he’d not forget it.

“It’s private,” she added.

“Ohhh,” the animagus wiggled his eyebrows at her while his smile widened. ‘Private’... he wondered what she might want to ask of him. “We can go to my study then. It’s not as if I have much use for it.”

She rolled her eyes at him. Apparently, he wasn’t fooling her. But ‘Sirius Black, hard-working head of his family’, wasn’t as impressive as ‘Sirius Black, carefree rogue’. Not that he really needed to look and sound impressive, these days. Not with Valérie and the others still around, despite having gotten to know the real him. But appearances had to be maintained - at least the ones he liked. Summoning two bottles of butterbeer from the fridge, he led the witch to his study.

“Make yourself comfortable and tell your future godfather-in-law everything!” he said after closing the door. When she flinched at his light-hearted teasing, he realised just what he had just made fun of. “Sorry,” he muttered while he sat down on his own, enchanted seat and popped a bottle open.

Hermione gave the barest nod in acknowledgement of his apology, and cast a few privacy spells at the door. Either she was far shyer than he had thought, or this was not about her and Harry’s love life. She didn’t touch the bottle he had floating next to her either.

The witch sat down herself, and for a moment, both of them stared at each other, their expressions growing serious.

“I need a live, marked Death Eater,” she said in a very level, very cold voice.

What? He stared at her, not quite gaping.

His surprise must have shown though, since she rolled her eyes at him again and pressed her lips together before elaborating. “You know about Harry’s scar.”

“Yes.” He nodded. He would have liked to forget that, at least at times. But he couldn’t.

“You know what the Dark Marks are and do,” she continued.

The young witch reminded him so much of some of his old tutors, he repressed the urge to raise his hand instead of nodding. He had to ask Harry if his godson felt the same sometime.

“I’ve got a plan to deal with both, but I need to know more about the Dark Mark. Much more. And for that I need to study one. On a living Death Eater.” The witch met his eyes, challenging him, daring him to ask what she was planning.

Sirius didn’t have to. He knew what kind of books she had been reading in his library, Kreacher had seen to keeping him informed. It was not too difficult for him, with his background, to deduce what she was planning. At least now. He sighed. “I assume you’d need a trip to Haiti too, sometime later?”

The girl stiffened, her eyes widening briefly. Why did everyone act so surprised whenever he revealed some knowledge? Then she nodded. “Unless I find the information I need in Britain.”

“You won’t. It’s been banned for centuries. If my family doesn’t have it, I doubt anyone else has it.” He didn’t like to brag, but his family had been among the most knowledgeable when it came to the Dark Arts. Still was, actually. Just because he hated to use it didn’t mean he had forgotten.

“There are immigrants. Researchers. Some muggles might have inherited books, not knowing what they are,” she countered.

“Yes. But you’d have a hard time tracking them down in Britain.” It wasn’t impossible, but it would require luck and time. Two things they might not have.

“Convincing one of the ‘practitioners’ to teach me is not likely to be easier,” Hermione said without showing any emotion. Not even the frustration he himself was feeling when he thought about their situation.

“You’ve got something else in mind, as an alternative.” It was not a question.

“Yes. But it’s a questionable plan,” she admitted.  
  
“More questionable than a trip to the Caribbean?” He raised his eyebrows.

Hermione nodded.

“More dangerous too?” He couldn’t think of anything. Maybe some of the things that had laid the foundation for his home’s wards. But then, he hadn’t been able to think of what Lily had done to protect Harry either. Not that he had really wanted to know what she had done in the first place.

“Maybe.” Hermione’s lips formed a thin line. That meant ‘yes’, of course.

Harry wouldn’t like that. At all. “But more promising than the alternatives?”

“As far as I can tell with my current knowledge, yes. That might change as I study the subject further,” Hermione admitted. The way she didn’t go into details despite their privacy more than anything else told Sirius that they were talking about highly illegal research either way.

“You’re doing outlawed and very dangerous research.” She might die. Or worse. The Dark Arts were feared and loathed for a reason by any sane wizard.

“It’s for Harry.” Hermione smiled sadly.

And that was the crux of the issue. If it wasn’t for Harry, he’d tell the girl to stop before she got herself jailed or killed. Or worse. But Harry was more important than either of them. Even if the boy would disagree. Vehemently. “He’ll hate it.” And he might hate her, and Sirius for helping her.

“He’ll live though,” Hermione stated with utter conviction. The older wizard realised that she would succeed, or die trying. Just like himself. He had failed Harry, had failed the boy’s parents once, he’d not fail again. No matter the cost.

He chuckled. “Hopefully he’ll never knew what we’re willing to do.”

Hermione nodded. Both of them knew though that this was unlikely. But maybe he’d not realise just what they had done, afterwards. They’d do it anyway. For Harry.

“So… capturing a Death Eater it is. Alive. And keeping him captive and alive. A tall order,” he summarized. Not impossible, of course.

“And hidden from the Dark Lord. Or at least kept at a place the Dark Lord can’t get to,” Hermione added.

“You realise that there’s only about one place that would work for that,” Sirius hissed.

Hermione nodded, smiling faintly. She had known, and was counting on him to arrange it, Sirius was certain.

“I’ll talk to him,” Sirius sighed. “You know, I wasn’t really joking, earlier. If you can do this, you can do anything.”

When he saw the way her face lit up with sudden hope, before she schooled her features again, he hoped he hadn’t been lying.

*****

Albus Dumbledore smiled at young Sirius. Seeing the wizard in his office made the Headmaster feel nostalgic. The young man had been a very frequent visitor to his office, back when he had been a student. Him, and the others of his group, troublemakers extraordinaire. They had been responsible for much laughter, back in the last war. That war… it had been a desperate struggle, but he had been younger then. They all had been.

His former student didn’t visit him that often anymore. Understandable, after Albus had failed him so terribly. An innocent in Azkaban, for over a decade. Albus ranked his failure to ensure the law was followed properly in that case as one of his biggest, gravest sins. One he would never be able to make up for, but would take with him to his grave.

He forced the morbid thoughts away. Sirius had asked for a meeting, in private, so it had to be important. Folding his hands, he waited for the other wizard to begin speaking.

“Albus, I need to know if you’ve got a secure dungeon in the school that could be used to house a prisoner.” Sirius came right to the point. Or appeared to do so.

Grimmauld Place had dungeons too, so Sirius didn’t need a cell, but the defenses of Hogwarts. Which meant that he feared the Dark Lord would come for the prisoner. And he didn’t want the Ministry to have him. The wizard could just be worried about leaks and spies, but Albus didn’t think so. Sirius had plans for the prisoner then, plans he needed secrecy and privacy as well as security for. “What do you plan to do with a Death Eater?” he asked. There were a few likely answers, of course.

Sirius frowned briefly, then smiled, and once again Albus saw not a middle-aged wizard, still somewhat showing the effects of Azkaban, but a young man sent to him by Minerva for pranking someone. The impression vanished as soon as Sirius answered though. “To study the Dark Mark.”

Fawkes trilled, not quite angrily, but not the happy sounds he made when he was pleased, or had just managed to steal some candy. Albus smiled at his companion, then met Sirius’s eyes. Sirius was many things. An animagus. A skilled wizard. A good fighter. A good leader too, and a caring godfather. But a researcher he was not. He had shown some talent when it came to pranking, to adapt spells or potions, but he had never shown any inclination for the kind of research this task he mentioned needed. And while he might be willing to do anything for his godson, Sirius didn’t seem to be that unaware of his own strengths and weaknesses. So, he was asking for someone else. Remus was more scholarly inclined, but he would have come to ask Albus himself, if he was involved. That left…

“I see Miss Granger is making progress in her quest to help her Patron,” the Headmaster remarked. Sirius’s hiss told him he was right. “Although we both know just how dangerous the knowledge she seeks is.”

“It’s for Harry,” Sirius answered, as if that explained and excused everything. It did the former, but not the latter.

“Of course. But would Harry like his retainer to sacrifice herself for him? Or his godfather?” Albus asked in a mild voice.

“He wouldn’t. Just as we wouldn’t like him to sacrifice himself for us,” Sirius said. “But that’s not the issue. This needs to be done. You know it as much as I do. Without discovering the secrets of the Dark Mark, without finding a way to ... deal with all that entails, we’ll lose this war. Or the next. The Dark Lord’ll have made certain to keep some of his marked Death Eaters safely away from the fighting. They’re probably not even in Britain.”

Albus hated to admit it, but he knew the younger wizard was correct. He had come to that conclusion already - Tom was very unlikely to risk all his Horcruxes. And if he was defeated, he’d return. A year, a decade later - he’d be back. Smarter. More experienced. And Albus might be dead by then. Of old age, even. He frowned. “Yes. It has to be done. But does it have to be her?”

“Lily was not much older when she found a ritual to defeat the Dark Lord. Who would you trust as much?” Sirius asked. “Who else does Harry trust as much?” He hesitated a second, then added. “And who else will we be able to deal with as easily, should she ... fall?”

Albus stiffened. “That is a surprising argument. Correct, but very cold-blooded.” As Rookwood had shown, not even the Unspeakables were immune to corruption - of either kind. And they and the likes of them had more experience and resources, which would make doing what was needed more difficult. And there was the fact that he’d get to teach again. He hadn’t been able to indulge in that passion of his for a while now.

Sirius spread his hands. “Do you doubt she’d prefer that to endangering Harry herself, after losing control or her mind?”

Albus shook his head. “I am not sure if I should be happy for Harry, or pity him.”

“Both, of course,” Sirius answered, without any hint of levity.

Albus sighed. “I’ll arrange a cell, far removed from any area students can access. And I will be present each time she visits, and involved in the research.” He wasn’t as foolish as to let a young witch delve into those matters without supervision. And there was no one else he trusted with the secrets of the Dark Mark. “Capturing a marked Death Eater will be a challenge though. Those known to carry the mark tend to seldom stray far from their Master’s side, and the others are hiding.”

“We’ve got a lead on someone. Just have to wait until he makes a mistake.” Sirius grinned ferally.

Albus felt the urge to caution the younger wizard of making the mistake of underestimating his enemy. Sirius wasn’t his student anymore, and deserved his trust, but a little reminder never hurt anyone. “Let’s hope Mister Yennington will make that mistake soon.”

He kept his expression bland when Sirius’s slight twitch told him the animagus had been surprised again by Albus’s knowledge. Surprised, and hopefully reminded not to underestimate his opponents.

When Sirius had left, Albus stopped smiling and leaned back, closing his eyes. He was preparing to study the Dark Arts with a young prodigy at his side. For the most noble of goals, they would be braving the foulest magic. Just like he had done before, with Gellert.

He could only hope that this time, no one would succumb to temptation. He didn’t want to add another unforgivable sin to his soul.

The old Headmaster glanced at Fawkes, who was busy preening himself, then at his watch, and wondered when the bodies of the Malfoys would be found.

*****


	32. Family Matters

**Chapter 32: Family Matters**

Kenneth Fenbrick arrived at the small clearing with his wand out and his back to his partner, Bertha Limmington. The Hit-Wizards guarding the location didn’t bat an eye at them, but didn’t let them out of their sight either - these days, everyone expected an ambush. There were too many Hit-Wizards around to make imperiusing them all feasible, or so Kenneth hoped, and he lowered his wand after a few detection spells.

Bertha, who would usually have been at the bodies already, had waited as well, and the two started walking towards the centre of the crime scene.

Kenneth took one look at the two bodies on the ground, and closed his eyes, sighing. “Why is it that even with all the special duties we’ve been on, we still get sent to all of the politically sensitive cases?”

To his surprise, his partner didn’t roll her eyes at him, or blame him. “I assume that’s ‘because’, not ‘despite’,” Bertha answered while kneeling down next to the closest body and running her wand over it. “We’ll have to wait for the results from the polyjuice testing, but so far this looks like the body of Narcissa Malfoy,” she declared while taking a blood sample with a flick of her wrist.

Kenneth nodded at the second body, a few yards away. “That would make this Draco Malfoy.” He peered at it. “The face matches the pictures we have.” Though on the pictures, the boy was smiling, with a slight sneer. This face was frozen in an expression of surprise and horror. He summoned some blood from the corpse as well, and made it float into a vial.

Bertha pocketed both vials in a self-sealing pouch.

“Let’s hope the Unspeakables find the time to run the tests,” Kenneth commented.

Bertha nodded, her attention fixed on the first body still. Kenneth smiled - that was his partner as he knew her. Focused, unrelenting, brilliant.

“Cause of death seems to be a Cutting Curse,” she spoke while a dictaquill recorded her words on a floating piece of parchment.

“Seems?” The heads were lying a few feet apart from the bodies.

“I don’t detect any other injury, but we can’t rule out poison or other options until the blood tests come back,” Bertha specified.

“Beheading someone so neatly requires great skill, luck, or some immobilized target,“ Kenneth commented. He knew that from practise. “Since we found the bodies, they were meant to be found, but I think if they wanted to make a statement, the bodies would have been arranged more … impressively. This looks like someone simply dropped them after beheading them.”

“Maybe they did. Or that is what we are meant to think.” Bertha was checking the robes of the corpses. “All protective enchantments are broken. Not just suppressed or overloaded.”

His partner nodded. “Looks like the Dark Lord’s handwork.” It took a lot to destroy such enchantments, and few did it when suppressing or exhausting them was so much easier.

“Yes. Not in person though. He uses the Killing Curse. Probably a new recruit. Maybe it was test. See if he has the guts to kill a mother and her son.” Kenneth frowned. “And he wasn’t fully on board, hence he simply let the bodies drop.”

“Or they were dropped without a thought, as if they were trash.” Bertha looked at the site again, marking the positions of the bodies and heads with a few flicks of her wand.

“As if?” Kenneth raised his eyebrows. He knew what kind of people the Malfoys had been.

“There’s a rumor that the Dark Lord was pressuring Malfoy and his mother. Maybe they tried to flee.” Bertha’s tone was even, but Kenneth knew her so well, he picked up her doubt anyway.

He snorted. “I believe that when the Dark Lord confirms it in person, with Veritaserum. I think they failed him, somehow, and this was their punishment.”

“No sign of the Cruciatus Curse. Although to find older traces, we’d have to wait for the tests from headquarters to be run.”

“More parchmentwork. Joy.” Kenneth sighed.

“Would you prefer another patrol instead?” Bertha’s lips twitched. For her, that was almost teasing.

“Of course not!” Kenneth shook his head. Patrolling was either too boring, or too dangerous. It was a task for Hit-Wizards, not highly-trained Aurors these days.

“Let’s check the other body.” Bertha stood up and walked over to the headless corpse of Draco Malfoy.

She waved her wand over it. “He was reported missing before the Eostra break. I don’t see any signs of torture, or wounds. Not even malnourishment. If he was kidnapped, then the kidnapper took pains to treat him very well.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Dark Lord.” Kenneth frowned. Other victims they had found had looked far worse. This was almost... merciful. As far as murder went.

“The Malfoys were an old family. As are the Blacks. The other victims we found were of lesser status.” Bertha cocked her head sideways, studying the head. It showed the same surprised and shocked expression as Narcissa’s.

“A gesture of respect, for old blood?” Kenneth doubted it. Members of other old families had been treated far harsher in the last war.

“Or for family. You know the rumors about the Dark Lord and Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa’s sister.”

“Ah… yes. But wouldn’t she have been more cruel?” He rubbed his chin. “From what the Hit-Wizards say, she’s as crazy in combat as before her capture.” Not that he associated much with the Hit-Wizards. But he had a sort of understanding with the veterans of them - as few as there were. Most had been released after the last war, which had resulted in a lot of resentment, and a surge in the population of British mercenaries. Kenneth didn’t want to know how many of the people the Ministry was fighting had been former Hit-Wizards.  
  
“Who knows what she’s like, after a decade in Azkaban?” Bertha looked around on the clearing. “We don’t know how she would treat her close family.”

“We don’t know anything. Could have been the Dark Lord, for defying, or failing him. Or some of the victims of dear imperiused Lucius, taking revenge on his family.” Kenneth hated it when a case lacked a clear suspect.

“They’d have done more I think, if they were willing to kill a dead wizard’s family in revenge.” Bertha was casting detection spells on the clearing now.

“True.” Kenneth followed her example. “How much longer until the curse-breakers manage to break the wards on Malfoy Manor?”

“They’ll need a few hours at least, and that only if it’s a priority.” Bertha was methodically covering the clearing.

“Is it one?” Kenneth’s partner would know, she had her finger on the pulse of the bureaucracy.

“Both the Minister and the Chief Warlock think so,” Bertha said, almost absentmindedly. Kenneth had known that someone was putting pressure on the DMLE by the urgency they had been called in on this case, but both Fudge and Dumbledore?

Kenneth scoffed. He could do with less pressure. “I am so glad to know that our best Curse-Breakers have nothing more important to do than break into a dead family’s house.”

“You’re the best, you deal with the worst.” His partner knew what he was thinking, of course.

“Yeah. I guess I need to mess this case up so we will get easier ones in the future.” He chuckled at Bertha’s expression. For a second, she had believed he was serious. Before he could tease her though, she noticed something.

“Look at this!” She pointed at a spot near the edge of the clearing. “Spell residue. Disillusion. Vanishing Charm. And a plant restoration spell.” She sounded curious, intrigued even.

Kenneth cast his own spell. “Two yards by two yards. It damaged the grass, but the soil’s not noticeably depressed. Wizard tent.” He grinned, both at the clue, and at the fact that the spell that had saved his third year Herbology project had been used here. “I think we found Draco’s hideout.”

“But why would he run away in the first place? He was the Head of the family.” Bertha bent down to check the grass, and Kenneth snuck a glance at her rear.

“Maybe he didn’t want to go home. Maybe he was afraid to meet his mother. Or her friends.” Kenneth had heard rumors about the Malfoys. And the Blacks.

Bertha glanced at him. “You think she was involved with the Dark Lord?”

“With her sister the Dark Lord’s right wand, and rumored to be his lover?” Kenneth shrugged. “Everything’s possible, but I hope the Curse-Breakers will have a lot of Hit-Wizards with them. Just in case the manor got visitors who stayed.”

“I think we’re done here.” Bertha straightened up.

“So, what’s next?”

“Witnesses.”

*****

“Pansy dear?”

“Yes, mum?” Pansy Parkinson looked up from the latest issue of ‘Teen Witch Weekly’ she was reading, causing the picture of the author of the ‘How to snatch your wizard’ column to pout adorably with perfectly shaped and painted lips.

“There are two Aurors who want to speak with you.” Penelope Parkinson stared at her, and Pansy’s first impulse was to claim that she didn’t do it, without even asking what she might have done.

Not that she could think of anything she had done that might cause Aurors to visit. And none of her rivals at Hogwarts would frame her, that would go far too far. That meant… she paled slightly. “It must be about Draco!”

Her mother nodded, smiling. “That would be my guess as well.” Pansy felt as if she had just been patted on the head. She checked her robes - not suitable for meeting every visitor, but good enough for Aurors - and followed her mother down to the eastern salon. The one for visitors that were not quite on par with her own family’s status.

In the room were a wizard and a witch waiting, both clad in the red robes of the Auror Corps. The wizard was handsome, with a certain roguish charm, and he was smiling at her. “Miss Parkinson? I am Auror Fenbrick, this is my partner, Auror Limmington. We’ve got a few questions for you concerning Draco Malfoy.” The witch nodded, smiling politely, and set a parchment with a self-writing quill up.

“Draco? Did something happen to him?” Pansy asked. Her mum put her hand on her thigh, as if to support her. Pansy felt the fingers dig into her leg though, and knew it meant to shut up, and let them ask questions without volunteering any information.

“He was found this morning. Dead,” the Auror said, nodding slightly.

For a moment, Pansy didn’t know how to react. She was shocked, then relieved, then shocked at her relief. She tried to say something, but didn’t find the words. Her mother’s hand was comforting now.

“Murdered, to be exact, as was his mother.” The witch’s voice seemed to be devoid of any emotion, as if she was talking about the weather.

Both Pansy and her mother gasped slightly at that revelation. That meant the Malfoys were gone. Another Old Family, destroyed.

“You were his girlfriend, until a few months ago, is that correct?” The male Auror sounded sympathetic.

Pansy nodded, then caught the pointed stare of the woman at her quill, and said: “Yes.”

“Do you know of anyone who’d want to harm him?”

Pansy sighed, using the time to weigh her words carefully. “I think a lot of students wanted to harm him at least once.” She smiled ruefully. “House Slytherin wasn’t the most peaceful place under Professor Snape.” The Auror frowned slightly at that. He was too old to have been a student of the man himself, but he probably heard the rumors. “But to kill him? No, I don’t know anyone at school who would do that.” At least she hoped so. If one of her acquaintances was a murderer… Merlin! “Do you think I’m in danger too?”

“At this point I doubt that,” the Auror stated while smiling reassuringly at her.

The witch cut in: “But it cannot be ruled out. You were his girlfriend for years.”

“But we had a rather nasty falling out,” Pansy said, almost pleadingly. Her mother patted her hand.

“Did he ever tell you about threats made to his family?”

Pansy shook her head. “No, when he was talking about his family, he didn’t mention anything like that.” She was still trying to come to grips with the fact that her ex-boyfriend was dead. Killed. Murdered. Who would…

Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts, since the Auror asked quickly: “Did you just think of something?”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Yes. Draco had … changed in the last year. Grown more secretive. He seemed more violent too.”

“More violent?” Both Aurors were staring intently at her now.

“He… he talked about fighting a lot. I think he was hiding something important. Sometimes it felt as if he wanted to tell me something, but then he wouldn’t say anything.” It was starting to get easier to speak. “We started to drift apart. He was always going on about Potter and his retainer. You know, ‘Mudblood this, blood traitor that’.” Her mum hissed at hearing that - those words were not uttered in public, usually, in this house.

The Aurors didn’t react to the slurs though. “Harry Potter?”

“Yes. Draco thought he was Potter’s rival since our first year. They clashed a lot. Draco didn’t often win.” Pansy almost smiled, remembering how she set her ‘boyfriend’ up for many such scenes.

“Did they fight?”

“Not with wands. Not often, at least. But they were no longer paired up in Defense. Not after a few sparring duels that got out of hand.”

“So, you could say they had been enemies?” The Auror’s voice was bland, calm, but his eyes were almost burning.

“Draco thought they were. He hated Potter and Weasley - Ronald Weasley.” She hesitated, just an instant, but again they noticed. Those were experienced Aurors, not fellow students. They wouldn’t underestimate her, she told herself. Lying would be a very bad idea.

Pansy took a deep breath. “You know, I had started to feel a bit afraid of him, before we broke up. He was just so… intense.”

“Why did you break up with him?”

“Potter had started a muggle ‘Movie Night’ at Hogwarts. Those are like pictures, but with sound and music, and go on for hours. Draco didn’t like that I went to watch. He said I shouldn’t go. I didn’t like that. Everyone else from our year was going. Even Greengrass and Davis. I wasn’t about to let him order me around, so I broke up with him.”

“Did he threaten you?”

Pansy shook her head. “No. Not really. But he was often staring at me. Not as often as he stared at Potter, though. But when I joined the Self-Defense Club run by Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, he was really mad.”

“Did he ever hurt anyone?”

“As far as I know, apart from some mishaps in Defense, no.” Pansy shook her head again.

“Did he have any close friends, other than Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle?”

“Not any close ones, no.” And she wasn’t even sure if Draco had considered them his friends - or subordinates. Potter treated his retainer better than Draco had treated them, on occasion.

“Do you have anything to add?”

Pansy thought for a moment. “No. I think that’s all.”

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson.”

Once the Aurors were gone, Pansy started to shake. That had been a lesson in humility. She wouldn’t fancy herself a superb manipulator, not for a while.

“Narcissa and Draco killed. A family going back centuries, gone.” Her mother shook her head, summoning a flask and two glasses, offering one to her.

Pansy took it. The fire whiskey burned in her throat, but it did help. “Do you think we’re in danger?”

“No. You distanced yourself from him.” Her mother sounded reassuring, approving even. But Pansy didn’t really believe her. If they could get the Malfoys, they could get anyone.

*****

Albus Dumbledore watched as the wards on the Malfoy Manor finally fell. He felt a brief bout of guilt when he saw several of the Curse-Breakers collapse, their exhaustion plainly visible. The old wizard could have sped the process up considerably and taken a lot of the strain off them. But if he would have been tied up in that, and the Dark Lord arrived…

“Is it done?” Cornelius, standing next to him, asked. The Minister for Magic hadn’t left his side ever since he had arrived. Albus hadn’t pointed out that being close to him wasn’t as safe as the other wizard believed since the Dark Lord would either come at him or try to keep him busy. And attacking Cornelius would keep the Headmaster busy protecting him.

“Yes, Cornelius. The wards are down. Though there might be other traps and defenses.” Albus remembered the Lestrange Manor, after the last war. Two Aurors and one Curse-Breaker had died when one among them had set off a trap that filled the entrance hall with poisoned spikes. “I’ll give them a hand.” With a nod to the Minister, he strode towards the manor. Traps he could deal with more easily than wards.

“I think I should take a look at this before we proceed,” he said as the Aurors and the remaining Curse-Breakers parted in front of him. Many of them would be relieved not to have to brave the traps themselves. Cornelius followed him, but then stayed in the middle of the Aurors.

There were quite a few defenses. Enchanted statues, some buried under the lawn, and hedges concealing Amazonian Strangleweed. Albus would have discovered them even if he hadn’t known about them from ransacking Narcissa’s mind. Everything was quite easy to spot, if you knew how to look for the wards that kept children away. He smiled. Narcissa had done a great many evil things, but she would never have endangered her son. She had died for Draco too, he thought as he proceeded to render the defenses inert, rushing to her son’s side when he was compelled to call her.

Sadly, Narcissa hadn’t known about Lucius’s traps in his sanctum, so Albus was unaware of what awaited him there. He would have to be ready to put the right spin on any discovery. A widow, pressured by the Dark Lord, following his orders until the demands grew to be impossible to endure… that might frighten some of the other Old Families into fighting the Dark Lord, instead of following him. And blaming the Dark Lord for the deaths of the Malfoys would ensure that their gold would not go to Bellatrix, or anyone else connected to Voldemort. With Andromeda emancipated, Sirius would be the closest heir then.

He reached the main entrance, and turned around, giving the waiting wizards and witches a signal with his wand that it was safe to approach now, before opening the massive, rune-covered doors and entering the manor itself.

“Mistress?” a high-pitched voice rang through the room. One of the family’s house-elves had appeared. “Mistress is not at home. No visitors.”

Albus smiled gently at the little creature. “Hello. I am Albus Dumbledore, the Chief Warlock. I am sad to say that your Mistress and your Master are dead.”

“Oh…” The elf stared at him. “I have to inform the others then,” it said, and disappeared through one of the hidden doors the elves in old mansions - and in Hogwarts - used to get around without being seen. In the last war, many elves had broken out in tears at the loss of their Masters. The rather reserved reaction to the news here said a lot about the late family’s relations to their servants. Well, the Office for House-Elf Relocation would be taking care of them now. Hopefully, they’d get a better home.

The first Aurors arrived then, and fanned out, covering the various doors. Behind them, Cornelius entered.

“I keep expecting Lucius to greet me, and invite me to his study for a drink…” The Minister looked slightly ill at ease, but whether that was due to him visiting the house of a dead friend, or the danger that still lurked in the house Albus couldn’t tell.

“The dead live on in our memory.” Albus nodded at the man. “The study should be safe, but his sanctum might still be trapped, and might require my skills to defuse. Did you ever visit that room?”

“Ah… unfortunately, no.”

Cornelius shook his head. Albus hadn’t expected anything else - even trusted friends, and Lucius wouldn’t have considered the Minister one, very, very rarely saw the sanctum of a Head of an Old Family. Too many secrets were stored there.

“Bigsy can lead you there.”

House elves on the other hand tended to know a manor better than their masters. Albus smiled at the little creature. “That would be very helpful, Bigsy.”

The elf nodded and led the Headmaster, the Minister and two Aurors through the halls of the manor. The paintings on the walls had heard the news as well, and were gathering, crowding even, in the frames lining the path to the heart of the manor.

“Someone has cursed the family! First Lucius, now Draco!”

“Woe! Woe! The line has ended!”

“Intruders! Turn back, or a curse shall strike you!”

“Revenge! Revenge!”

Albus ignored the shouts and laments of the Malfoy ancestors. They were just paintings, and old ones at that. Narcissa had, involuntarily, revealed that they wouldn’t be able to offer any insight or threat - they had been kept out of the loop by both her and Lucius. A wise precaution, given the rumors about some research into paintings by the Unspeakables he had heard.

They reached the door to Lucius’s sanctum. Even without a spell to help, Albus could feel the magic guarding it, straining at its bonds, ready to lash out at any intruder.

“Ah! Cornelius, Auror Fenbrick, Auror Limmington, I think it would be best if you stayed a bit back. You too, please, Bigsy. This looks to be a slightly tricky affair,” Albus said while running his first detection spells.

His companions retreated quite quickly. Cornelius might have considered Lucius a dear friend, but he also knew that the traps guarding this family’s secrets would be deadly.

They were, but despite the Malfoys’ reputation, the family wasn’t exactly in the Black’s league when it came to the Dark Arts. It took some time - the layered shriveling and paralyzing curses were particularly inventive - but Albus disabled the defenses without too much of an effort. He had faced and done worse, much worse.

When the last trap was finited - a Blasting Curse in the floor - Albus twitched his wand at the door with a flourish, slowly opening it and revealing the sanctum of Malfoy Manor. Shelves lined the walls and an old, ornate desk and a marble altar took up much of the floor. The desk was polished, spotless, but the altar was covered with dried blood and dust. Albus hoped that the blood dated back to the time the manor was built and the wards erected, but he doubted it.

Both were trapped as well, but those traps he could deal with rather easily. Old magic, long since replaced by new spells and designs. He briefly wondered if Lucius had stuck with them out of tradition, the misguided belief that anything old was more powerful, or simply had been too lazy to keep them more up to date. It didn’t matter now.

A few minutes later, both were safe, and after a nod, the two Aurors went to work. They made a good team, in Albus’s opinion. The studious Ravenclaw and her analytical nature working well with the more impulsive and intuitive Gryffindor. Despite the serious occasion, he smiled - he always loved discovering that former students of his had done well in their lives.

His good mood didn’t last though.

“Blood’s old. Relatively. More than a year at least. Human though,” Auror Fenbrick announced.

“A lot of residue from repeated spells, but not enough to single anyone out. Multiple castings over a long time would be the likeliest explanation, in my opinion,” Auror Limmington added.

“Not abnormal for an Old Family,” Cornelius stated. “A number of the books here are restricted or banned.” He didn’t have to add that grandfather clauses would have covered most of them. The Old Families controlled the Wizengamot, and knew how to protect their interests - and heritage. Even Sirius was no exception there.

“There are no clues then about the murderer,” Albus summed the preliminary results up. “But this was the sanctum, restricted to the head of the Malfoy Family - who was at Hogwarts the last few months. Narcissa was the regent, but wouldn’t have been able to enter. Her study might reveal more.” Would reveal more.

“Excellent deduction, Dumbledore.” A gravely voice with a taunting, challenging undertone suddenly sounded from the left corner. The Aurors had their wands out in seconds and Cornelius was at the door an instant later. Albus and the house elf didn’t react other than turning towards the speaker. Both had recognized the voice.

“Greetings, Abraxas,” Albus nodded at the portrait in the small painting on the wall there. “My condolences for your loss.” This was a portrait who’d know more - Lucius’s father had been a skilled wizard, and had died but 20 years ago. His portrait had retained more of his mind as well, according to Narcissa.

The old, grizzled wizard portrait snorted. “Save the forms, Dumbledore. I knew this would happen.”

“Do you know who ended your line?” Albus asked, his gentle tone hiding his tension. Narcissa didn’t think the portrait knew much, but she could have been wrong. And with his family gone, the portrait wouldn’t have much loyalty left.

“Snape.”

Albus heard gasps of surprise from behind him. He raised his eyebrows. “Severus died with Lucius.” And he knew his friend had not cheated death. He had embraced it.

“Yes, and he killed Lucius and thus ended my line.”

“What about Draco?” the Headmaster asked, honestly curious.

“It’s a miracle that idiot survived my son. He hadn’t even half the wits of of his parents, who were no geniuses either.” The portrait sneered, a very familiar sight. “He hadn’t even the foresight to sire a bastard with a muggleborn, in between bringing muggle girls into the house.”

Albus acted surprised at this, but he knew what the portrait meant. Draco’s mind hadn’t withstood his probes for long, and what he had seen there… the boy hadn’t been the smartest or most talented wizard, but he had matched some of the worst wizards Albus had known in depravity and sadism. And, seeing as he had managed to remain undiscovered for so long under Albus’s own eyes, the Headmaster couldn’t deny that the boy’s sorting had been on the mark.

Cornelius, of course, didn’t know. “What? Draco had ... affairs with muggles?” He turned to Albus. “Do you think that was why he ran away?”

The portrait laughed before Albus could answer. “The cretin probably tried and failed to kidnap another girl, and fled.”

“Kidnap?” Mister Fenbrick’s tone was tense and cold. And Miss Limmington’s expression would have fit a statue. Of one of the Furies.

“Yes. In my father’s time, you charmed a muggle girl, if you felt the urge, then obliviated her afterwards. If she was good, she got a fitting gift, and the memory of a passionate night with a stranger. If not… she’d remember drinking too much. We were civilized.” The portrait sneered at Albus. “Even if some disagreed.”

Cornelius and the two Aurors were staring. Albus sometimes forgot how much had changed, since Grindelwald. He addressed the portrait. “Times changed. For the better.” At least in part thanks to his own efforts.

“So you say. I’d never have tolerated what Lucius and his son lowered themselves to.”

Albus had seen too much, especially in the wars he had taken part in, to believe that. “And what did they ‘lower themselves to’?”

“As if you’d not know!” For a moment, Albus feared he had been discovered. Then the portrait continued. “You’re the smartest wizard of the century. You know already what they did.”

“Kidnapping. And no obliviation afterwards.” Albus’s disgust was real. “The girls were killed, were they not?”

“Yes. Slowly.”

More gasps sounded from behind him. And one whimpering noise that could only come from an elf.

“You are quite open with your family’s secrets,” Albus took a step towards the portrait. It shrugged.

“My family’s gone. Draco was the last of my blood. Lucius saw to that.” The portrait managed to convey some regret as well as old anger. Quite a feat for an imprint.

“Leo Winter,” Albus stated, remembering the blond, talented muggleborn who had been at Hogwarts in the 70s.

“Yes. Lucius found out, and killed him. Otherwise we’d be discovering now that a pureblood child was given to a muggleborn mother to raise, in case worst came to worst in the war.”

“My condolences.” Albus was sincere. He knew very well how much losing family hurt.

“Save it. I died before that happened. I am but a portrait.”

“A portrait whose statements are not applicable in court. Did your progeny leave any proof?” Albus doubted it. Narcissa had been thorough.

“Not to my knowledge. Lucius wasn’t that stupid, and Narcissa was concerned for her son.” The portrait fell silent after that.

“So, there’s no way to prove all of … this?” Cornelius must have regained his wits and sounded both relieved and outraged.

Albus spread his hands. “The investigation will certainly go on.” He nodded at the two Aurors. “But in light of these revelations, absolute discretion is advised.” Seeing the two cringe slightly as if they were still students facing the Headmaster almost made him chuckle. “As long as the murderer of Narcissa and Draco remains at large.”

As they left the Sanctum, Albus said: “At least we can now be reasonably certain that there are no other relatives to consider but Sirius Black.”

Cornelius nodded. “The French branch of the family is not close enough to contest that.”

The old wizard nodded. Now they just had to find the proof that Narcissa had been ‘forced’ to finance the Dark Lord, and the case would be neatly solved.

And he had every trust that the two Aurors trailing behind him and the Minister would manage that, even after the shocking revelations in the sanctum.

*****

“Hello Albus,” Sirius Black greeted the Headmaster as he stepped out of the Floo connection in No. 12 Grimmauld Place.

“Hello Sirius.” Dumbledore nodded at him. “I assume you have heard about the Malfoys.”

“Yes, I have.” Sirius gestured towards the door. “Let’s move to the salon. The rest of the family is there.”

“My condolences.”

Sirius scoffed. As if he’d mourn any of them. “Is it true they were killed by the Dark Lord for failing him?”

“It is still under investigation. It has been discovered that the Malfoys have been financing him though.”

“No need to offer any condolences then,” Sirius spat. Padfoot would have growled. Dumbledore frowned, but did not make a comment.

They entered the salon. Everyone was there. Andromeda was sitting with Ted and Nymphadora on one couch. Harry was sitting in an armchair, with Hermione perched on the armrest. Not quite proper, but Dumbledore wouldn’t mind, Sirius knew that. The Headmaster prefered less formal meetings. Remus was standing behind them, probably had just stopped pacing. And Valérie, Chantal, Laure and Eugénie were sitting on another couch. Everyone was wearing black or at least dark robes.

It was the most sombre, depressing sight Sirius had seen in months. And all for an evil bitch and her worthless son. Even in death, they could ruin a wizard’s day! He noticed people were staring at him, and realised he had been growling. He controlled himself. Sirius was needed, not Padfoot. He conjured a chair for himself and sat down, even though he wanted to pace around.

Dumbledore greeted everyone, then sat down in an armchair and took a deep breath. “You’ve heard about the murders of Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. I offer you my condolences.”

Everyone nodded. Andromeda shivered briefly. Well, Narcissa had been her sister. Still… Nymphadora looked a bit torn. Harry and Hermione looked sombre, but Sirius thought at least the witch was just acting. Harry… he cared for family. And he was probably aware of Andromeda’s sorrow. The rest offered support, but hadn’t really known Narcissa.

It was Andromeda who answered. “Thank you, Headmaster.”

“I have some disturbing news though.” The old wizard looked at Sirius.

The head of the Black Family didn’t flinch and met the Headmaster’s gaze. “We’re all family here.”

After a second, Dumbledore acknowledged that with a nod and a faint smile. “I see. While the murderer still has not been discovered, it has been found that Narcissa Malfoy has been financing the Dark Lord. If she had been coerced to do that, and if so, to what degree, remains unknown still.”

Sirius scoffed. “Good riddance.”

“Sirius!” Andromeda was glaring at him.

He stared back. “What? I am wearing mourning colors. I won’t malign her in public. But among family? I’ll be honest, I don’t miss her. She was a bitch, her son was worse, and now that we know her family’s gold paid for murders and worse… good riddance to her and hers, I say!”

The animagus looked around. Hermione nodded at him. No surprise there - the muggleborn witch knew the score, knew what would happen to her should the Death Eaters win. Harry looked uncomfortable. The boy probably didn’t want to offend the Black-Tonkses. He was quite diplomatic, too.

“She was still family,” Andromeda said. “Blood.”

Sirius scoffed. “She was. She stopped being family long ago, when she threw in her lot with Malfoy.”

“You were her Head of Family!” The eldest of the three, now two, Black Sisters shot to her feet.

“I was. Not anymore, seeing as she is dead. If she had had a spine, she’d have chosen emancipation after her husband was killed!” He stood up as well and faced his cousin. “I do not owe her memory anything, anymore. She picked her side.”

After several seconds, Andromeda looked away. “I still remember my little sister. The youngest of us three. How she looked up at me and Bellatrix,” she said, in a low voice. Tears appeared in her eyes. “And now she’s dead, and won’t ever become my little sister again.”

Sirius grimaced. Now he felt bad. For Andromeda, of course, not for her bitch of a sister. Ted and Nymphadora were glaring at him, as if this was his fault. Harry probably was glaring too. He didn’t check. “I’m sorry.” He bowed his head briefly.

Andromeda nodded, accepting his half-assed apology. He glanced back. Harry was smiling, faintly. Hermione’s face didn’t show anything. The Headmaster was looking sad. That didn’t surprise Sirius - the animagus didn’t know what exactly had happened to Dumbledore’s family, but it was an open secret that the old wizard had lost all but his brother before Grindelwald’s war, and that his own brother hadn’t considered him family for decades. Seeing another family arguing must bring up painful memories.

Sirius almost snorted. It used to be that if there were no dark curses flying, it wasn’t considered a real argument among Blacks. He felt Valérie’s hand on his back, caressing it before her arm wrapped around his waist, and let himself be led to the couch occupied by the Veela part of his family.

For a while no one said anything, then the Headmaster broke the silence. “While it might sound callous to talk about such matters, barring surprises in Narcissa’s will, you will be inheriting the Malfoy fortune.”

That surprised Sirius. “Me? What about…” he trailed off. Andromeda wasn’t legally family, having been emancipated. And Bellatrix was a traitor. He should have known this. “So, there are no relatives on the Malfoy side then.”

“None that are close enough to matter. The portrait of Lucius’s father confirmed that.” Dumbledore sighed. “The Dark Lord will not take well to losing one of his main sources of income.”

Sirius waved the concern away. “As Harry’s godfather, and Head of my family, I already was pretty high up on his ‘to-kill’ list.” He saw his godson flinch and Hermione put her hand on Harry’s shoulder, and suddenly felt guilty - Harry was even higher on the list of Voldemort’s enemies, and he had just reminded everyone of that.

No one called him on it though, even if Remus shook his head slightly when their eyes met.

“How… how did she die?” Andromeda asked hesitantly.

“From what I can tell, she was killed with a Cutting Curse. It must have been very quick,” the Headmaster explained.

Sirius thought that sounded like the usual lie told to relatives. He wasn’t about to ask the Headmaster for more details, not here at least. “What about Draco?” Not that he thought anyone cared much about that foul little bigot. Even the bonds of blood wouldn’t reach that far.

“He was killed in the same manner.”

“Are there any suspects?” Ted asked while holding his wife.

“Given the Malfoys’ situation, many have had the motive to do this. One theory is that they failed the Dark Lord, somehow. Or tried to escape his clutches, and he took offense.” The Headmaster didn’t react to Hermione’s scoffing-turned-coughing. Sirius flashed her a grin, despite the frown from Harry that earned him. “Another theory is that someone Lucius had hurt took revenge.”

“So… we have no idea who did the deed,” Sirius summed it up.

“That would be essentially correct, yes,” Dumbledore admitted.

“I do hope that the Ministry will focus their efforts on a known threat, instead of some hypothetical culprit. In the current situation, diverting resources which should be used to fight the Dark Lord would not be a smart decision.” Sirius stated, semi-formally.

Dumbledore met his eyes, briefly smiled, and nodded. “I am certain Cornelius shares your opinion. He might wish to meet you in person, to offer his condolences.”

And to exchange favors - monetary or political ones. Sirius didn’t like it, but that was how the game was played. And if he received the Malfoy fortune, he could afford to be generous. Very generous. “The Malfoy gold caused too much death already. Maybe it should be used to help people for a change.”

Dumbledore beamed at him, as if he had just said something profound and not banal.

*****

“So. Malfoy’s dead,” Harry Potter said as soon as the door to his room had closed behind himself and Hermione.

“Apparently.” Hermione sat down on his bed, kicking off her shoes. A swish of her wand had them on the floor, properly aligned. He briefly waited for her to add anything, but she didn’t.

Sighing, he joined her on the bed. “I don’t know what I am supposed to feel about that.” On the one hand, he was glad the git was gone. On the other hand, Malfoy was dead. Murdered.

“Relief?”

He glanced at his girlfriend. She looked like she was serious. “You think he was that bad?” ‘To deserve death’ remained unsaid, but was understood.

Hermione bit her lower lip, apparently mulling this over. “I am certain he’d have become that bad, or worse. He hasn’t changed at all since first year. Not for the better, at least.”

“What about Parkinson then?” Harry asked gently.

“I doubt she has changed. She’s plotting something.” Hermione frowned, as she often did when talking about some pureblood witches.

“Against Ron?” Harry wondered.

“Or through him against you.” Hermione nodded.

“So… is she that bad too?” Harry asked in a carefully neutral voice.

He saw his girlfriend flinch slightly. After a short pause, she answered. “She didn’t really do anything. A few hexes, in first year.”

“She egged Malfoy on though.” Harry wasn’t about to let up.

“That’s true. But she also tried to hold him back sometimes. I know she doesn’t like me, or any muggleborn. But she’s never tried anything. And she hasn’t used such spells as Malfoy did, in the duelling competition.” Hermione wasn’t quite babbling, but close to.

“Maybe she’s just better at acting.” She had to be, to stand years as Malfoy’s girlfriend, in Harry’s opinion.

“Maybe. But we can’t suspect the worst of everyone, at least we can’t use that as a reason to act on it.”

“I agree.” Harry smiled, satisfied. Sometimes Hermione needed to be held back a bit herself. Or at least reminded of her own principles.

“You…” Hermione huffed, apparently she had just understood what he had done. He kissed her before she could say anything else. There had been enough arguments in the family for today.

*****

Hermione Granger sighed. She was sitting in Harry’s lap, her head leaning against his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“I was thinking about Sirius’s reaction today.” Among other things.

“Oh?” She felt Harry tense up.

“He all but said openly he’ll bribe the Minister. And no one, not even Dumbledore, said anything. The Headmaster seemed to approve of it, even!” That kind of corruption was poison for any system. Approval from the highest positions for those sort of practises…

Harry held her a bit closer. “He approved of the move against Voldemort. I doubt he approves of the corruption. But you can’t start a fight with the Minister in the middle of a war.”

“I know that.” Understood it too. In war, often the only choice was to pick the least evil course of action. It still vexed her. Even if it was hypocritical, given her own plans. But then… knowing the system banning her plans was corrupt made it a bit easier to go through with them. Hermione slowly let out her breath. It was best to drop that topic. “At least Sirius and Andromeda made up.”

“Yes. Narcissa was her sister. It’s understandable she’d miss her, no matter what she did. I guess she’d miss Bellatrix too.”

“Unless Narcissa’s gold or Bellatrix’ wand cause harm to her family.” Hermione could understand Andromeda’s sentiments. Barely. Approve of them? Never.

“They are her family too.”

“Not legally.” Hermione was quite aware of those kind of legalities. Ever since she had found out what having a Patron meant. Her parents still didn’t know the extent of Harry’s power over her - and their own lack of power over their daughter.

“They’re blood though.” She didn’t need to see his face to know he was pouting.

“Blood may be thicker than water, but without anything else, it’s just a liquid.” She should have worded that a bit better. “Love makes a family, not blood.” That too.

“The purebloods would disagree.”

“Sod ’em! Ask Sirius, he’ll agree with me. Remus is family. Bellatrix is not. Malfoy was not family.” Hermione twisted around in his lap to face Harry. Under other circumstances, this would have been a rather… naughty… position. Not now though.

“You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family,” Harry quoted in response.

“Of course you can! Legally, or emotionally, some actions break the bonds of family, the same way as some actions form the bonds of family.” Hermione met his eyes, chin pushed forward. “It’s not easy, and it shouldn’t be easy, to break it, but a family bond is not something set in stone.”

Harry looked away. Something - pain, worry, or fear? - flickered over his face.

Hermione realised why he was reacting like this. She wasn’t the best when it came to understanding how others felt, but she knew Harry very well. Better, on some days, than she knew herself. She cupped his cheek in her hands and gently turned his head back towards herself. “Sirius won’t drop you. You won’t lose your family, Harry.” She wasn’t about to add ‘until death’, even if that was true as well. Probably true, given the existence of death and souls.

“I… I know. I just…”

“Trust me, Harry. When it comes down to it, love is stronger than blood.” It had to be.

Slowly, Harry nodded. She didn’t pull her hands back from his face though. Instead, she kissed him again.

She’d not let Malfoy make Harry suffer. Not even through his death.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort didn’t move, didn’t even flinch, when his shield deflected the remains of a desk that had been reduced to a flying cloud of wood splinters. He didn’t close his eyes when a wall was shattered, showering him with shards of stone. He did wince though when he saw the cuts they left on Bella’s face.

Bella. She was taking her sister’s death hard, though the Dark Lord couldn’t tell if she was more incensed at losing her sister, or at someone daring to kill her last kin. For all her acid comments about the Malfoys, his lover could be sentimental.

He felt the loss too - at least his vaults did. And through them, his wands would feel it as well. The Malfoy gold had been financing his mercenaries for months now. With that source gone, he’d either have to cut back his attacks, or send his valuable followers in place of the curse fodder.

Bella was done with the furniture and starting on the walls. It was time to intervene. “Bellatrix.”

Voldemort was pleased to see she froze at once, and fell to her knees. “Master.” His lover hadn’t been too far gone in her rage to forget her place then.

“I feel your loss, Bella. But I need you now, more than ever, at my side, not lost in your anger.” He held out his hand, and the dark witch gripped it, pressing it to her cheek before standing up. He ran his wand over her face and body, closing the cuts, both visible and hidden behind the restored fabric of her robes. In a whisper, he added “I promise you, your blood will be avenged. A hundredfold.”

Trembling, with suppressed rage or emotion, she nodded. When she raised her eyes at him, he could see her utter faith and devotion. It did help him to control his own temper. The Dark Lord could have quickly repaired the walls and furniture, but he held back. Bella might explode once more, after his next words. “My spy tells me that Black will inherit the your sister’s belongings.”

She gasped, and started to move away, her face contorting in a mask of rage. This time, he didn’t let her go. His hand held her wand arm, fingers digging into her biceps. She hissed in pain, but stopped struggling. She didn’t stop pleading silently, though.

“You cannot storm off, Bella. Black is too well-protected, and Dumbledore will be waiting. I cannot lose you.”

She lowered her head, her cheeks flushed. Embarrassed and ashamed at her own behaviour, and pleased by his words. He took hold of her chin, and forced her face up, towards his.

Soon their robes dropped on the floor littered with debris.

*****

Lying next to Bella, who had fallen asleep, physically and emotionally exhausted, on a Cushioning Charm, Voldemort pondered his situation. He needed gold to hire wands. He needed gold to keep his hired wands from leaving. The Malfoys hadn’t been his only source of income, but they had been one of his bigger supporters. He couldn’t sustain the current level of his operations without them, that much was obvious.

The question was, should he focus on acquiring more gold to continue his campaign? He stared at the ceiling. He had driven the mudbloods into the manors of their Patrons. He had bled the Aurors and Hit-Wizards. Britain feared him, more than ever. He wouldn’t need as many expendable wands to remain feared. An attack here and there would suffice. And the Ministry wouldn’t be able to reduce their own efforts since they would not know if or when he’d strike again. And there was the fact that as everyone was moving into the manors of the Old Families, attacking them would become harder and harder - and more costly.

Bleeding the Ministry’s forces was difficult enough already. He had managed, but he had been bleeding his own forces almost as much as he had been theirs. Granted, most of his wands had been curse fodder, expendable - if less so, now - but so had been the Ministry’s. But if the battles moved to strongly warded mansions, his losses would mount far more quickly.

Maybe it was already time to change tactics. Preparing the ritual he had planned would take time. Time he could use to recruit selected wands, instead of rabble. To weed out the weak from his own forces. Yes, there was no need to keep the pressure on. Let his enemies, let the sheep think they were safe behind their old wards. When their beliefs were then suddenly shattered, the shock would be so much bigger.

He rubbed his chin, scratching the soft stubble that had appeared before casting a silent shaving charm. But he couldn’t appear to be weak, or tip his enemies off either. He’d order Keith to step up his attacks, and recruit who he could. The more of the rabble died, the less gold he’d have to pay for wands too weak to matter much. And those who survived would be stronger for it. More experienced. More valuable. And the dead wouldn't tell any tales.

He leaned back. Yes, his course of action was clear now. His enemies would not suspect his changed plans. Not until it was too late. Ironically, the deaths of the Malfoys might turn out to have been a boon for him in the end.

And yet, there still was the matter of the Prophecy. Without knowing what it said, he remained in the dark with regards to what kind of threat Potter was to him. He had to find another subject of a prophecy. Any prophecy, as long as it was stored in the Department of Mysteries.

*****


	33. Trapped

**Chapter 33: Trapped**

“You know, there was a time when you didn’t like me spending money on gifts for you.”

Hermione Granger looked up from the package she had just received - after weeks! - and at her grinning boyfriend. She huffed. “This is no frivolous gift, but a necessity!” She gently ran her hand over the cardboard box. It looked a bit banged up - she vowed that if the delivery service had damaged the contents, there’d be hell to pay. “And it was Sirius who paid for it, anyway.” And Harry’s godfather had the money to spare, even counting the exorbitant exchange fees Gringotts charged.

“You look like Ron when he got his new broom.” Harry sounded amused.

This time she glared at him. “This is no mere broom, but something far more valuable: A custom made high-end computer with the latest software and hardware! The ultimate tool for my Arithmancy projects!”

“Well, it did cost as much as my new broom,” Harry remarked. He took a step closer and drew his wand.

“No magic!” She jumped up and stepped in front of the package.

“I was only going to unpack it so the thing won’t get jarred needlessly.” Harry stared at her, lowering his wand.

“We can’t risk any magic near it until it’s safely in the rune frame.” Too much was riding on this.

“We’re inside the strongest wards outside Hogwarts. A little spell won’t do much more.” Harry shook his head at her.

“It’s still an unnecessary risk,” she retorted primly. “Now help me carry this to the workroom!”

“You’re going to unpack it inside the frame?” Harry blinked, apparently surprised.

“Of course!” And she’d shield the case itself as soon as she had the time, as an added precaution. “And drop your robe first. The enchantments on it pose a risk as well.”

“Hermione, I think you’re taking this a bit too seriously...”

“Do you see me wearing my robes?” Hermione pointed at her t-shirt and shorts.

“I thought that was just because you were meeting the muggle delivery man,” Harry answered, but his eyes seemed to be stuck on her legs.

“That was only part of the reason.” Hermione waited, arms crossed under her breasts, until Harry slipped out of his robes. Only then was she satisfied that he’d not endanger her new computer.

“Was that just to see me strip?” Harry asked in a suspicious tone.

“Of course not!” Although he did cut a fine figure, in his t-shirt and shorts, in her opinion. “I would have said so if it was the case. Or charmed your robes to be invisible to my eyes,” she added, smirking. He blushed at that, which she thought was adorable. Despite the urge to get to work as soon as possible, she bent forward and kissed him.

After making certain that there was no one around who might want to help them with a Levitation or even Summoning Charm, they carried the heavy package to the room Hermione had commandeered as her working space. As close to the library as possible, it had been a smaller salon once, used for tea parties by Sirius’s mother. Hermione had had all the ornate furniture replaced with sturdy, functional pieces taken from the basement potion laboratory last week.

“If Sirius saw us struggling like this, he’d never let us live this down,” Harry grumbled.

“He would, if he knows what’s good for him. This might save his life.” It would save Harry’s life, she added to herself.

“If this is so useful for Arithmancy, how did they ever manage without it?” Harry asked, after they had set the box down inside the big cage of rune-covered beams she had erected in the workroom.

“Badly,” Hermione answered, taking out a pocket knife to open the package. “While the theoretical base for Arithmancy was formed by the wizards of ancient Greece, computing the formulas was so time-consuming and difficult, Arithmancy remained a largely theoretical discipline with few practical applications. Only those with extraordinary talents for mathematics could make use of it, and those were very rare. Almost all spellcrafting was purely experimental.” And very, very dangerous. “The invention of slide rules in the 17th century changed all that, and in the two centuries that followed, most of the spells commonly used were replaced by the more efficient and more elegant versions we still use today. That was when Arithmancy was introduced into the curriculum at Hogwarts as an elective too. But slide rules can only go that far. Even if you don’t make a mistake, it takes a very long time to calculate a spell’s formula, so most spellcrafters settle for the first formula that works, and don’t bother trying to find a version that is probably only slightly better. And most ‘new’ spells are variants of existing spells, derived from existing formulas.”

While Hermione had given her brief lecture, she had cut the cardboard panels until the box fell apart, revealing the computer inside - case, screen, and assorted peripherals. “With this though, I can run programs that will find the perfect formula for a spell - optimized for whatever I want. Power, ease of casting, speed - both casting and traveling - whatever I want.” And costs and risks, but she’d not mention that. No need to worry Harry about something she had to do. She smiled brightly.

Harry nodded. “We still have to use slide rules in class though.”

“Yes.” Hermione frowned. She hated it - she felt crippled in class, working with the inefficient official tools - but Harry had been adamant about keeping the electronic calculator a secret. And he was suffering like her, at least.

“A number of the older families will hate this, once it gets out. And not just those following Voldemort,” Harry commented.

“Hm?” She glanced up from the manual. She had read a dozen magazines about setting up a computer, but it never hurt to make sure what she had learned was applicable.

“All the spells developed and refined over generations in a family, never shared with outsiders, could be duplicated or even improved by anyone with such a machine. A number of families will lose advantages they have enjoyed for decades.” Harry smiled at her.

She smiled back, showing her teeth. Anything that caused the old pureblood families to lose some of their power was a very good thing, in her opinion.

Soon she had the computer assembled. Now came the hard part - installing the operating system. If she ever met the programmers responsible for this...

*****

“Ah, what a cruel fate has my poor godson suffered - he has been replaced by a muggle machine!”

Harry Potter glared at his grinning godfather. “I haven’t been replaced. Hermione’s just having a bit of a hard time installing all the programs she needs.”

“Ah!” Sirius nodded, but Harry didn’t think the other wizard understood what his girlfriend was doing. Or cared.

“Aren’t you curious about the thing you spent so much gold on?” he asked the older wizard.

“It’s an Arithmancy tool.” Sirius shrugged, as if that said it all. “I am curious about the spells she can create with it, not the tool itself. I only took the class because my parents insisted.”

“And for the pranks,” Harry added.

“That too.” Sirius grinned. “But pranking is more of an art than a science, as Hermione would say. I don’t need better tools for that.” He looked at the table in the kitchen Harry was standing at. “What are you doing?”

“Master’s Godson is cooking,” Kreacher appeared behind them, and his tone was dripping with resentment.

“I’m not cooking. I’m just making sandwiches for me and Hermione.” Even though Harry couldn’t really stand the miserable old elf, he felt the need to defend himself against the implied accusation that he was usurping Kreacher’s duty.

“That’s gourmet cooking in my opinion,” Sirius cheerfully commented.

“Compared to your efforts, yes.” Harry had seen his godfather’s attempts at making food. Even tasted them, once.

“Master’s Godson is spoiling his slave.”

“She’s not my slave, she’s my girlfriend.” Harry sighed.

“Give it up, Harry. My mother’s influence is too strong,” Sirius said, shaking his head at the elf.

“I’ll keep trying.” If he gave up faced with a stubborn elf, why would he expect to have any luck changing the attitude and views of an entire society?

“Stubborn like your mother.” Sirius chuckled.

Harry nodded. “Can I ask you a question?” When Sirius opened his mouth, he quickly clarified: “Without you answering it with some tale from 6th year or a joke?”

Sirius waited for a second, with his mouth open, then nodded. “Sure.”

“Had my parents any plans for their future? You know, beyond living in concubinage?”

Sirius sighed, and sat down at the table. “I know they had some plans, especially Lily, but I wasn’t privy to them.”

“You weren’t?” Harry stared. Sirius was his godfather, and had been his father’s best man at their muggle wedding.

“No. We were at war, you know, and I was at risk. More so than them, especially after they went into hiding. And while I don’t know what she, they were planning, I had my suspicions. Lily loved magic, but she didn’t like Wizarding Britain. Hated it, often enough. That’s why she insisted on you getting raised by her sister, if anything happened to both her and James. She didn’t want you to be raised as a muggleborn in Wizarding Britain. She was a very opinionated witch.”

Harry was briefly confused, then he got it. “You mean, Voldemort knowing about her views and plans might have hurt your side?”

“Maybe. She managed a ritual that protected you and destroyed the body of the worst Dark Lord Britain had seen in centuries. Can you imagine what else she could have done, had she lived?”

Harry nodded. And Lily hadn’t had access to a computer. Unlike Hermione, now. Maybe his parents had had the right idea about keeping secrets, even from Sirius.

“Well, I’ll go feed my girlfriend now. I wouldn’t want to miss her preparing the computer’s case for the runes,” he said, standing up.

“You’re that interested in runes?” Sirius snorted.

“No. But in order to protect the computer parts from static electricity, such work is best done while wearing as little clothing as possible.” Harry smirked at his gaping godfather and left the kitchen.

“That’s my godson!” he heard Sirius whoop before the door closed behind him.

*****

Sirius Black muttered a curse under his breath when two fireballs flew at him. His shield deflected one, but broke when the next one exploded against it, and the wizard knew more were on the way. He dove to the ground and conjured an angled stone wall in front of him.

Just in time. Two more explosions shook and rattled his hastily created barricade, and flames licked around its edge. He cursed some more and conjured fog that filled the entire area around him, then jumped to the side before charging ahead, sending stunners blindly through the fog, then conjured an ice plane on the floor in front of him. If he had planned it correctly…

He slid out of the fog on his back, wand pointed at the ceiling. There! Above him was his opponent, wings spread and fire gathering in her hands. His bludgeoning curse caught her in the side though, spoiling her aim. The fireballs hit the ground next to him, vaporising most of the ice, and his stunner splashed harmlessly against her robes. “Gotcha!”

Valérie screeched petulantly in return and landed next to him while Chantal, standing at the wall next to the door, giggled. A Veela in her avian form was a beautiful sight. Wings folding behind her back, her claws clicking on the marble floor, soft feathers covering her skin, the way her eyes changed, and her face… she was a magnificent, magical raptor.

Sirius stood up as Valérie changed back, her feathers fading and her beak turning into pouty lips. He ran his wand over his training robes, enchanted with special protection against fire, removing dust and some soot.

“I lost again.” Valérie sighed.

“That’s why we train. But I also knew what to expect, and you were forced to fly far lower and slower than you’d do in the field. That’s not something the Death Eaters will be able to count on.” Sirius briefly held her hand, squeezing gently.

“They’ll know about us by now.”

“True. But they won’t be used to fighting you.”

“But the Dark Lord will surely be prepared for us. So far we have only faced his hired help, not his chosen followers,” Chantal cut in.

Sirius nodded, but kept smiling confidently. “True. But we’re a cut above the hired help to start with, and we know how they fight as well.”

“For all the good that will do. Bellatrix Lestrange is hardly predictable,” Chantal countered.

“She and the Dark Lord himself are the only ones like that though. He knows too many spells to count, and she’s crazy. The rest… they have certain patterns,” Sirius explained. A decade in Azkaban tended to affect your mind, as he knew from painful experience. Strong personality traits lasted the longest, and stood out even more in the absence of others. After trying for years to keep a grip on your mind, to hold it together, it was hard to open up again, to change.

Hard, but not impossible, he added, pulling Valérie closer, and smiling at Chantal.

A shriek and the smell of burning feathers interrupted their discussion. Apparently, Eugénie and Laure had overdone their training match again. Well, it was better for them to be hit by fireballs in training than by dark curses in battle, and it showed just how hard everyone was working.

Chantal shook her head and summoned the burn ointment to her, then banished it at the two Veela. While they tended to each other’s wounds, she turned her attention back to Sirius. “My turn now.”

Sirius grinned, gently pulled away from Valérie, and bowed in a manner that had gone out of style a hundred years ago.

“Your wish is my command!”

*****

“Here!”

Harry Potter looked at his beaming girlfriend, and then at the stack of parchments she had just dropped in his lap. A very heavy, but also very familiar looking stack. “Is that…?”

Hermione nodded several times. “Yes! I finished our study plans for the O.W.L.s, including our current training schedule and leaving enough time to pursue our other projects. It is not as comprehensive as I wanted, but I guess we’ll have to make up the missing parts as opportunities present themselves - I added some flexibility especially for that.”

Harry had to make an effort to smile. It wasn’t that he hated studying, or that he didn’t understand how important good grades were for his, their life after Hogwarts, but Hermione went more than slightly nuts in the last term of each year, and now with the O.W.L.s looming… “What about Quidditch?”

“Oh, that too. Since Johnson became team captain, the training sessions have been much more reasonable than under the maniac,” Hermione happily commented. Harry’s girlfriend didn’t seem to catch the irony of calling Wood a maniac while presenting her study session schedule from hell.

“Good.” Harry knew that Hermione wouldn’t try to make him stop playing Quidditch, she knew how important it was to him, but sometimes… well, she also thought it was too dangerous for him. And that was totally unjustified.

Hermione was about to turn away when he coughed. “Can I see your schedule too?”

“Ah…” Seeing his girlfriend nibble on her lower lip told him all he needed to know.

“How much sleep did you budget for yourself?”

The young witch hung her head and sighed. “I’ll redo my own schedule, happy?” She pouted at him, though he could see she was feeling guilty as well.

“Very.” He held her back once again when she tried to leave, and pulled her on his lap, pushing his stack of parchments - probably with lots of bullet points to cross off - to the floor. Holding her close, he waited until she stopped protesting and squirming, then laid his chin on her shoulder and whispered: “Thank you.”

He felt he relax, lean against him, and heard her whisper back: “Thank you.”

*****

There were more guards in the grey robes of the Hit-Wizards around at the station than before, Ron Weasley thought when he boarded it. He had to pass through a mobile Thief’s Downfall before he reached the platform too, and while he knew he was safe, he was still nervous - some of the guards looked rather twitchy. With all the delays the security caused, he was very glad that for a change, his family had arrived early. Even if Fred and George had been making jokes about this being a sign of the apocalypse. Rather distasteful, given the situation in Britain, but that had never stopped the twins.

Inside the Hogwarts Express he saw two more guards patrolling already. Ron was rather glad when he reached the compartment Harry and Hermione were in.

“Hello mates!” He had shrunk his trunk as soon as he had set foot on the train, so he simply sat down across his two best friends. Crookshanks the hero cat jumped on his lap even before he had settled in, and demanded to be petted. Ron was happy to oblige. The two of them understood each other.

Harry looked at the door. “Where’s Ginny?”

“She said she was waiting for Neville. Dunno why she couldn’t wait with us in here,” Ron answered, grinning slightly. First boyfriend for his kid sister. He wondered how long it would last. Probably not into their 6th year, he guessed, but maybe until the end of term.

“Ah!” Harry nodded, and Hermione smiled widely.

Ron decided against offering to bet on his sister’s relationship. His friends might be taking it a bit too seriously. Understandable, seeing as both had been raised by muggles, and with their special relationship. “Did you see all the guards? Feels like an army on the move.”

“Yes. But only a few of them looked old enough to have much experience,” Harry commented, then gestured at a patrol of two Hit-Wizards passing in front of their window. Both had their wands out and were constantly looking around.

Ron studied them briefly, then nodded. “Yes. Though even the older ones might not have much experience. Dad told us that the Ministry’s on a recruiting drive. They’re literally taking anyone who can hold a wand, there’s even been talk about ‘reassigning non-crucial employes to the Hit-Wizard corps’,” Ron quoted his father.

“Sounds like the Ministry’s is gearing up for a ‘total war’,” Hermione said.

“Percy says nothing has been planned. But he also said attendance of the free self-defense lessons the Ministry is offering to employees and their relatives has been lower than before due to rumours claiming that those who do well there will be forcibly recruited,” Ron continued.

“Damn!” Harry cursed. “I bet that’s the work of Voldemort’s spies. Sabotage recruitment with just a few words.”

“Language!” Hermione admonished him. “Those who are afraid of fighting wouldn’t fight well anyway.”

“Still hurts morale. People think the Ministry is getting desperate. Well, some think so. Some trust the Daily Prophet, no matter what they write.” Ron shook his head.

Hermione huffed at that. She hadn’t been too impressed with the biggest newspaper in Wizarding Britain, Ron knew. Apart from the professional magazines, he didn’t know any magazine or newspaper she actually liked. Other than the muggle Times.

“How are things, actually?” Harry leaned forward. “We haven’t heard that much during the vacation.”

“I don’t know. Dad says the Ministry’s doing well, for the Ministry.” Ron snorted. “Percy says things are progressing according to the projections. But he also assured mum that he was in an ‘essential position’ and would not be reassigned to the frontlines.” He shrugged. “No one knows how many wands the Dark Lord has left, and the Ministry is not talking too much about their own forces. But they haven’t caught any of his marked Death Eaters yet, those he broke out from Azkaban.”

“The news articles focus on how many of Voldemort’s men have been killed, remain vague about their own losses, and predict victory in the foreseeable future.” Hermione scoffed. “Replace a few names, and it could be the press releases from Vietnam.”

“Vietnam?” Ron was confused. What had the asian wizards done?

“It was a muggle war, thirty years ago,” Harry explained.

“Ah. Who won?” Ron didn’t know much about muggle wars. Everyone knew about Hitler’s war, of course. That had happened during Grindelwald’s War. But Vietnam was on the other side of the Earth.

“North Vietnam.”

“Ah.” So, probably a civil war. Like the ones in North America. “Well, that’s a good omen, seeing as Hogwarts is in the North,” he joked.

Harry and Hermione chuckled, but Ron could tell that they found it about as funny as he himself did.

No one in the compartment spoke for a while, until the door opened again, and Luna swept inside.

“Hi everyone!”

The blonde witch wasn’t wearing her school robes yet, but what looked like a set of brightly-colored patches loosely held together with strings and magic. She jumped from Ron to Harry to Hermione, hugging everyone. Ron couldn’t help noticing that she had started to fill out some, in the right places. Behind her Aicha entered the compartment in a more sedate manner. She was wearing her usual Arabian clothes, and her genie was circling Hermione’s head, eyeing her hair. Hopefully, she wouldn’t try to braid it again, or Hermione might set Crookshanks on her, as she had once threatened. The tomcat was already tensing up, he could feel it.

“What did you do last week? Daddy wanted to travel to Sweden again, to look for Snorkacks with improved bait, but he couldn’t get a travel permit in time.” Luna pouted. “They recently added so many steps to getting a permit, Daddy said it would be easier to travel muggle style. But he didn’t have the right travel permits for that either, so we looked for elder fairies in Ireland last week. We didn’t find any, but we found some wild leprechauns, and they are related to them, so it was a sort of success!”

Ron had known Luna for years, so he didn’t try to answer her question until she had ran out of breath. “We spent the week at home. Mum’s having Bill reinforce the wards, again. If that keeps up, we’ll have the strongest wards in the area.” They wouldn’t be strong enough to withstand a dedicated Death Eater attack, though they should buy enough time for help to arrive.

“Studying and training,” Harry summed their activities up. “Hermione got a new toy to play around with too.” From the look Hermione shot him, she had been about to go into details when he spoke up before her.

The door was opened again, and Padma peered inside. “Hello.”

Ron smiled widely and got up. “Come in!” He embraced her tightly, then nodded at Lavender and Parvati, who were standing behind his girlfriend, before closing the door again. He didn’t pay attention to anything or anyone but Padma for the next few minutes.

Ginny and Neville finally arrived, right when the train was starting to move.

“Oi! Couldn’t cut it any closer, could you?” Ron shook his head at his sister, ignoring the glare she shot at him in return.

“Now that we’re all here, here’s our study schedule for the O.W.L.s!” Hermione announced with a wide smile, and with a flick of her wand, thick stacks of parchment shot out to everyone in the compartment.

Ron groaned good-naturedly - he had expected that, but it was tradition now for him to complain.

Hermione knew that as well, so she simply huffed at him. Ginny was making sympathetic noises to Neville, and Luna and Aicha were giggling. Padma though ...

“Padma?”

His girlfriend was staring at her stack in what looked to be complete puzzlement. “That’s your study schedule? Shiva’s sword, why aren’t you all in Ravenclaw?”

“Well, that’s Hermione’s study schedule, and kind of the, ah, optimal case,” Ron pointed out. “The essential stuff will be at the top of the lists, and the lower you get, the less important it is. The only one who actually learns everything on the lists is Hermione.” That earned him another huff from the witch in question.

“And she does that for everyone?” Padma was still staring at the stacks in wonder. Well, she was a Ravenclaw.

“Only for the subjects I’m taking as well. And Ginny, Luna and Aicha got my old schedules,” Hermione explained. “They are copy-protected though. Extensively.” Hermione’s proud smile turned a tad cruel.

Ron whispered into Padma’s ear: “So you can’t share them without getting cursed.”

Padma nodded, slowly. “So… if my sister had been nicer to you, she’d have gotten this as well?”

Hermione looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. “Probably.”

Padma grinned. “I can’t wait to tell her… after our O.W.L.s.”

Seeing Padma’s smile, Ron thought that his best female friend might be rubbing off a bit too much on his girlfriend.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick had thought Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody was the most demanding, cruel instructor possible. The grizzled old Auror was as paranoid as one could be without ending up in the permanent mind damage ward in St. Mungo’s, and had all the tact and manners of a goblin torturer with a hangover. His guest lectures in the Auror Academy were legendary, and when word had gotten out a few years ago that he was to teach a few Defense against the Dark Arts lessons per year at Hogwarts, half of the Aurors had expected to be called in and arrest him after the first week.

Aberforth Dumbledore made Mad-Eye look like a sensitivity trainer. At least that was Kenneth’s opinion after he had been thrown against a barely-cushioned wall for what felt the tenth time in as many minutes. He hadn’t broken anything this time, at least, and so he managed to get up within a minute without any help.

A few yards away, his partner, Bertha Limmington, was still sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall and looking like a troll had used her for target practise with boulders. Judging by the glare she shot at the old wizard, she probably shared Kenneth’s views.

“Come on, we don’t have all night. Get up and attack again!” Aberforth growled, waving at the Auror.

“Don’t get your pants in a twist,” Kenneth snarled. He acted as if he was still trying to regain his breath while he silently conjured a boa constrictor behind his ‘teacher’, then sent a barrage of stunners at the old wizard to keep him from noting the snake.

At least that had been the plan. The innkeeper ducked to the left, evading all but one stunner which splashed harmlessly against his shield, and casually cut the snake in two with a silent cutting curse. With a wave of his wand Kenneth was flung against the wall again, despite his attempts to dodge and shield.

“That would have been a cunning plan… for a first year Slytherin. If it had worked.” Aberforth shook his head. “Team up against me.”

Kenneth glanced at Bertha, and opened his eyes wide for a second. She gave him the tiniest nod in return. Growling, he cast the brightest Lightning Spark he could, closing his eyes at the last second and rolling to the right. When he opened his eyes again, Dumbledore was between him and Bertha. The two Aurors lost no time and cast at once.

When half a dozen spells hit the older wizard, Kenneth yelled with glee. When the spells passed through what was an illusion, he started to curse, but couldn’t finish before he impacted on the wall again. At the other end of the room, Bertha crashed into the wall with less grace, and he winced at the sound of her bones breaking.

“That was better. Good teamwork. But you left yourself vulnerable, and you should have been casting blindly while moving, and covered the room in darkness beforehand. Then you might have had a chance against a veteran Death Eater, if he’s having a bad day.” For Aberforth, that was almost high praise. Kenneth hadn’t been verbally abused like that since he was caught by McGonagall trying to sneak into the girl’s bathroom in Hogwarts in his fifth year. A wave of the man’s wand fixed Bertha’s broken leg.

Why was this wizard working as a bloody innkeeper if he could wipe the floor with two veteran Aurors so easily? Kenneth wondered while he once again struggled to get up. He was frustrated, and having Miller watch and smile at the sight didn’t help at all.

He looked at Bertha, then glanced up to the ceiling. Once again she nodded briefly and then exploded into action, sending spell after spell at Aberforth - an avalanche of exotic hexes and curses she had picked up from Merlin knew where. Kenneth’s own spells joined hers, but both were just a distraction - in between sending another chain of spells at their opponent, Kenneth transfigured the ceiling above the man into a solid block of stone that suddenly broke free and fell down.

Aberforth was dodging and shielding wildly. It seemed their distraction was working. For a moment Kenneth was even worrying that he had overdone it, and would hurt the old wizard seriously.

But at the last moment, the man apparated away. Kenneth heard him reappear behind him, but was not fast enough before he was struck by several spells and left immobile on the ground. Bertha followed his example ten seconds later, when her shield broke under the assault.

“That was almost adequate. You’re starting to think beyond the typical tactics of hired wands, curse-happy Death Eaters and Aurors. Most of those think being creative means picking an exotic curse to hit your target with. They never realise that it means using your spells in creative ways, instead of simply trying to hit your target.” Aberforth chuckled. “Give me another year, and we might curse your Auror training out of you and turn you into decent fighters.”

“We’re Aurors, not Hit-Wizards!” Kenneth defended himself and his partner.

“I’m not talking about your investigative and legal training. I’m talking about learning how to fight in a war. You’re still thinking too much like an Auror who wants to arrest all subjects.”

“You want to turn us into Hit-Wizards!” Kenneth accused him.

“Oh, no! Perish the thought! I have far higher standards.” Aberforth laughed.

“No you don’t, or you’d not be friends with half your friends!” Miller cut in, giggling.

“Where did you learn to fight like this?” Bertha asked, standing up on shaking legs.

“I fought in Grindelwald’s War, the Intervention, the First Blood War, and a few other conflicts you probably never heard of. Unlike my brother, I am not much of a show-off though, so you won’t know what I have done.” He chuckled. “Though if you turn out not to be too stupid, I might tell you a few tales.”

As rewards went, that was not exactly much, Kenneth thought, but the prospect of being better trained for combat and getting to wipe that smirk of the old wizard’s face, maybe even set his beard on fire, was enough for Kenneth to go another round or two. Even if it was Hit-Wizard training. Or should be.

On the other hand, being able to beat the grey robes at their own game would be a nice benefit as well...

*****

Keith Yennington, polyjuiced into Francis Farseer, had to force himself to smile and leer when he entered the ‘Capricious Courtesan’. He didn’t want to be there, at least not in this old and ugly body. He wanted Hortensius with him, not this idiot wand for hire, Bertram Bloomer, following him. But the Dark Lord wanted him to recruit more rabble, and Hortensius had been killed in that failed attack on Fenbrick and Limmington, and so Keith had had to go.

His best wand had been killed and not captured, Keith had verified that, so his secrets should be safe. And when he had visited Knockturn Alley in the last week, polyjuiced into random people, to scout for traps and ambushes, he hadn’t found anything other than the usual patrols. But that didn’t mean it was safe for him. He knew the enemy was after him. Well, that was why he had a dozen wands hidden amongst the crowd.

If not for the Dark Lord’s orders, he’d not have gone as Farseer. But the old wizard was the only disguise available to him that wouldn’t appear suspicious when recruiting mercenaries. Farseer had an established reputation as a womanizer and a coward, always taking at least one guard with him when he visited the alley. If he wanted additional wands, that would be dismissed as him not feeling safe without more bodyguards, while someone else might be recognized as a recruiter for the Dark Lord.

He smiled at the nude witch floating above him, gyrating to the music, and banished a galleon to her. She picked it out of the air with practised ease, and flashed a sultry smile back at him, all without losing her rhythm. Leering, he made his way to the bar, already looking for possible recruits.

Another advantage of being Farseer: Mercenaries who would not hire on with seedier looking wizards, much less Death Eaters, would follow him. And once they were at his supposed home, the Dark Lord’s Imperius would convince them to follow his orders. The perfect curse fodder.

He spotted a likely candidate, a wizard who looked just a bit uncomfortable, his robes just a bit too shabby for this place. Probably a mercenary down on his luck, and forced to look for employment here. Before he could address him though, appearances had to be maintained.

“Fire Whiskey for me and my friend,” he told the witch behind the bar, followed by another banished galleon. “Keep the change, sweetums.”

“Coming right up!” She smiled back at him. Usually, a pretty witch smiling like that would have made him feel good, but since he was wearing this husk of a body, he knew her smile was a lie. All she was interested in was his gold.

The whore approaching him wore the same kind of lying smile. Not that many wizards would notice, with her chest all but exposed by her scant robes. She moved with more grace than the rest of the whores though, and she had a better figure too.

“Hello, Sir. I haven’t seen you before I think…” She spoke with a hint of a French accent. “I am Florence.”

“Hello,” he said, with a leer. “I am Francis. I’ve been a bit… concerned about my safety, with all the bad news lately. Bertram here is a good wizard, but he is alone, so I’ve been forced to keep away from the alley.” Keith pointed at his nominal guard. “But I plan to hire a few more guards, so I can safely visit more often.”

He could almost see her reevaluate his wealth after this. Multiple bodyguards meant he was important, or at least rich. Probably both. To her credit, she didn’t mention that. “Enchantée. That’s a very smart attitude. Your experience shows, sir.” She looked pointedly at some of the mercenaries. “Some of those are eager to sign up for the war, quite a foolish notion, wouldn’t you agree? Life’s offering so much, and yet they are ready to throw it away...”

Keith smiled. Not only was the whore - no real courtesan would be found here - graceful and had good manners, she could also help him with his task. He could have done worse. When the bartender brought him and Bertram their drinks, he ordered another for his ‘new ladyfriend’.

“To living your life, instead of risking it!” He raised his glass to hers.

“To life!” she answered.

Bertram grunted something Keith didn’t catch, and didn’t care to catch. When he had finished belching fire, he offered Florence his arm. “Let us retire to a more private table, dear.”

The whore agreed readily, as both had known she would. As he led her towards Farseer’s favorite private booth, his watch vibrated - he had a quarter of an hour left to drink more polyjuice. More than enough time to get settled at the table before he had to visit the bathroom.

*****

Mathilda Miller let her eyes roam over the bar while the polyjuiced Death Eater was in the bathroom with his bodyguard. He was probably drinking more of his potion. The courtesan leaned back, crossing her legs, and glanced at Kenneth, who was still standing at the bar, disguised as a wand for hire down on his luck. Well, she wasn’t sure if he actually had planned to look like that - slightly uncomfortable, and wishing he could be somewhere else - but it would work out.

His partner, the cold but jealous witch, was disguised and dressed up as a whore, flirting - or trying to, she wasn’t exactly a natural at it, even with her training - with Aberforth at a table. Abe himself was looking 50 years younger for the evening, thanks to some alchemical concoction. It was a far more effective disguise, given his age, than polyjuice, and once the battle started, he’d not be hindered by an unfamiliar body.

The dumb bodyguard reappeared, looking briefly around, then stepped aside to let Yennington pass in front. Mathilda smiled widely at the wizard. “I’ve been missing you already!”

He grinned, but it felt fake to her. “I returned as fast as possible, but some things just can’t be rushed too much.”

She winked at him, giggling. “I also felt a bit afraid, with you and your bodyguard gone.” Nodding towards the gaggle of mercenaries at the bar, she added: “Some of those ruffians kept staring at me.” Among them probably a few more of the Death Eater’s bodyguards.

When Kenneth pushed away from the bar and started towards her and Yennington’s table, she watched who among the other guests was tensing up, or otherwise reacted suspiciously to that. And who relaxed when Kenneth turned away halfway to the table, after a last look at her. She pointed out the one she had caught to Abe with her eyes and saw him nod, then stretch. He got them all then.

Mathilda slid her foot out of her shoe and up the man’s leg. He drew a hissing breath in response, tensing up, then leered at her, patting his thigh. Unless he had seen through her act, he was getting a bit impatient. She smiled, and moved on his lap, then slid her hands under his robes. She had no doubt that his clothes were enchanted to withstand the best stunner she could cast. If she wanted to hit him with a spell, it’d take time - time she wouldn’t have, not with his guard so close. But she didn’t need spells to take him out of the fight. Not with her hand down his pants, and her fingernails having been sharpened. She dug them in, and twisted.

Yennington started screaming as if he was getting crucioed. His wand shot into his hand, courtesy of a wrist-mounted quick-draw holster, but he was in too much pain to cast reliably and quickly enough to overwhelm the protections on her seemingly skimpy robe before she overwhelmed his with her fourth stunner.

Kenneth, who had taken out the bodyguard, slipped into the booth right after that and hit the Death Eater with a few more stunners for good measure, after raising a stone wall from the floor to shelter them from curses.

Before the wall cut off her line of sight, Mathilda saw Abe cutting two mercenaries - or disguised Death Eaters - down with a single spell that slammed them together hard enough to break multiple bones. She heard and felt his next spell - the entire room shook from the blast.

“It’s the Dark Lord!” someone screamed, and pandemonium broke out as almost everyone in the room tried to escape - the Alley hadn’t forgotten what the Dark Lord had done in the past.

“My Lord, I am on youArgh!”

That probably had been a sympathizer. Now everyone would flee, Mathilda thought as she pulled out a handkerchief from a hidden pocket in her robe. Dropping it on their captive, she looked at Kenneth. He shook his head at the offer and ducked around the increasingly battered wall, leading with his wand and a blasting curse. Mathilda shook her head at his back, then triggered the portkey. To her relief, it worked - the anti-portkey wards were down - and both the spy and the Death Eater were carried away to a prepared safehouse.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick dropped to the floor, narrowingly avoiding a Killing Curse, then rolled through a puddle of wine or beer - or blood - while a series of weak Blasting Curses followed him, cratering the floor. He was almost under the cover of an upturned table and already preparing to transfigure the wood into stone when the Death Eater finally adjusted his aim, and the floor around the Auror blew up, throwing him up and back a few feet. He landed hard, feeling his ribs crack, and yelled in pain. His right arm, his wand arm, had protected his face, but had caught several sharp splinters as a result, and another had clipped his forehead. His robe’s enchantments were gone, he realised, when the blood ran over his face and into his eyes, though they had saved his life.

He managed to get up and even cast a shield spell in time to deflect another curse, but it was shattered afterwards, and the Death Eater was already casting again, the tip of his wand glowing as it cut through the air in the well-known movements of a Piercing Curse, and Kenneth knew he’d not evade the next spell.

Then the Death Eater’s head blew up in a shower of blood, bone and brain, and Kenneth felt himself getting dragged towards the back of the room - summoned. His partner stood there, slinky robes torn and blood running down her side, but with her wand out and a fierce expression on her face. Kenneth flinched when another Blasting Curse passed him, impacting on the floor behind him, and sending more shards of stone against the last remaining enemies.

Landing next to her, he coughed a brief “Thanks!” and quickly transfigured the remains of a table into a bit of cover for the two of them.

“There were more wands than expected and observed,” Bertha explained, sending a swarm of bees at another corner.

“So I noticed.” Kenneth grunted with pain and got up again. “Where’s Aberforth?”

“Dealing with reinforcements in the back. They recast the anti-apparition and portkey wards.”

Two enemies were left, or so he thought, from about dozen, hiding behind the bar. He was about to cast a Blasting Curse at it, then reconsidered. Instead he transfigured the large mirror behind them into alcohol - pure alcohol.

“Incendio.”

The screaming from the two Death Eaters set ablaze was worse than Yennington’s, and went on for longer.

“I see my lessons were not wasted,” Aberforth Dumbledore said, entering through the backdoor. A wave of his wand ripped stone fragments out of Kenneth’s arm, another stopped the bleeding, but not the pain. The old wizard ignored his pained hissing as he continued, as if they were back in training: “Though it only worked because they skimped on the fire protection wards. Nevertheless, we are done here.”

Kenneth nodded, not wanting, nor needing to ask what had happened out back. He pulled out his own portkey, and a second later, all three were gone.

*****

They reappeared in the prepared safehouse, and Kenneth slumped to the ground, shaking. That had been too close. A hand dropped on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and he opened his eyes to smile at Bertha.

“Boy needs a healer. I fixed his arm, but he might have some internal injuries. Had one keel over and die like that once, in France - looked all healthy, then dropped dead. Healers said he had internal wounds I had missed when I healed him,” Aberforth declared. “We’ll drop him at St. Mungo's, once I’ve taken care of the prisoner.”

“What do you mean, ‘taken care’?” Kenneth managed to ask.

“He’s a marked Death Eater,” the old wizard answered, pointing at the exposed black mark on the man’s arm. “The Dark Lord will be able to find him anywhere, and I doubt the Ministry’s wards will be able to hold him off - or his spells.”

“What…” Kenneth was confused.

“I see.” Bertha wasn’t. “I trust we’ll get the results of the interrogation?”

“Amelia will get them, yes,” Aberforth nodded. “Good work you two, but you might want to fix that robe, girl.”

Kenneth was confused again - or still - until he noticed the large tear in Bertha’s already skimpy courtesan’s robe. Which was, due to their positions, right in front of his face now. He didn’t notice the bound Death Eater disappearing, or the spy giggling until Bertha had repaired her robe.

*****

Albus Dumbledore sighed, looking at the unconscious Keith Yennington. Thanks to three drops of Veritaserum, the man had spilled what he knew about the Dark Lord’s plans - and what crimes he had done in Voldemort’s service. More than enough to deserve the Veil, vastly more. The Headmaster shouldn’t feel guilty about what was going to happen to the prisoner. And yet he did.

He was alone with the man. Aberforth had not stayed after delivering his captive, and the fewer who knew about this, the better. He tapped a crystal orb on his desk with the tip of his wand, ending the recording of the interrogation. Amelia would complain about not getting to ask her own questions, no doubt, but having a complete recording would hopefully mollify her some. Worth the cost of the orb, at least. After casting an unbreakable charm on it, he stashed it in one of the expandable pockets of his favorite purple robe. Before he could deliver it, and weather Amelia’s temper for using her Aurors for this, he had to deal with the captive.

A flick of his wand lifted the man from his seat, a swish bound him in magically conjured ropes, and a twist disillusioned him. Despite the late hours, some students might still be out and about, and it wouldn’t do to be seen carrying a captive down to the dungeons, even if such rumors might make the Weasley twins behave a bit more. As delightful as their pranks could be, especially in these trying times, they had a nasty streak, and tempers were already running too hot.

If Minerva couldn’t get through to them, maybe they could be distracted by work. Banning their products should see a surge in demand, at least from the Gryffindors and even some Slytherins. And if that was not enough, then he might place some orders of his own - some of the products they were already selling through owl order had applications beyond pranking. If there were enough special orders and changes, they might be kept too busy to work much havoc until their N.E.W.T.s...

He kept thinking about possible uses for some of the WWW’s stock until he had reached the dungeon cell he had prepared deep under the Gryffindor tower, hidden behind a false wall in a room behind a secret door that looked like it had been used for experiments. Cell wasn’t exactly the right word, though - it was more like a vault, with walls now as thick and safe as those of Gringotts, and spells to match. Not even Voldemort’s magic should be able to reach anything in that vault, not through the castle’s wards, and through the special wards he had placed on the cell. The Headmaster touched the door with his wand and willed it open.

The massive door swung slowly open, revealing a laboratory behind it. Marble floors and walls, with layered spells to contain whatever experiment might run out of control. Two shelves and desks, and cabinets with supplies. And one small bed, bereft of sheets. He floated the unconscious Death Eater on the bed and pulled out the vial with the potion he had brewed for this occasion. Draught of Living Death.

Unstoppering it, he stepped up to the prisoner, still disillusioned to everyone but himself. A wave of his wand woke the man up, and while he was looking around, confused and helpless, Albus put the vial to the prisoner’s mouth and forced him to drink.

When he left the laboratory again, Albus wondered if Keith Yennington had realised, in those few seconds before the draught took effect and he could see his surroundings, what his fate would be.

He doubted he would ever know, or would want to know.

*****


	34. Changes

**Chapter 34: Changes**

Sirius Black was standing across from the entrance to Knockturn Alley, looking at the fires still going on inside, and felt a bit guilty. Just a little bit - it wasn’t his fault those buildings next to the ‘Capricious Courtesan’ hadn’t had proper fire wards. Even without a war going on, that was just criminal negligence. But then, it was Knockturn Alley. And they were at war.

_“Why can’t we go undercover as well?” Sirius had asked Aberforth when the operation had been planned._

_“Because without polyjuice, you’re too noticeable,” the old wizard had answered. “And we don’t have that many ‘donors’ anyway. And we need a reserve outside, in case things don’t go well inside.”_

_Sirius hadn’t been able to say much about that - Valérie, Chantal, Eugénie and Laure were noticeable. Very much so. And he was memorable too, and handsome, if he did say so himself. “I bow to your experience then. Under protest.”_

_“Do that, boy, and you’ll live longer.”_

_And so he and his four friends - girlfriends - had been standing on a roof, a decent distance away from the brothel, hidden by invisibility cloaks, while the two Aurors and Aberforth had had all the fun._

_Well, not all the fun - he had been sharing the cloak with Valérie, and while they hadn’t been as irresponsible as to distract each other intimately, just being close to her had been very nice. They hadn’t talked much, just held each other and waited together._

_But when the coin stuck to his sleeve had vibrated, he had jumped on his broom eagerly. Capturing Yennington would be a heavy blow to the Dark Lord. The first marked Death Eater caught. And even better, Hermione and Dumbledore would be able to find a way to help Harry._

_The five of them - he on his broom, the Veela on their wings - had reached the brothel quickly. Guests and whores had been fleeing, trampling each other in their haste to escape, both out front and out the back. The only way to spot any disguised Death Eaters in the crowd would be to look for those trying to get in. And in the chaos below them, that had been far easier said than done._

_Then the back wall had been blown out, and he had seen Aberforth cut down a few wizards staggering around in the resulting dust cloud. Obviously, the old wizard hadn’t had any trouble spotting Death Eaters. Or starting fires inside._

_The coin had vibrated twice shortly afterwards - Aberforth’s signal that the mission had been accomplished. Without any help from Sirius’s Sexy Strike Squad._

_Just as he had been about to tell the girls they could go home, someone had fired a curse at them from below. More had followed, and while badly aimed, and probably cast without seeing them, some spells had come close. And then the first thug had mounted a broom, and flown up, wand out._

_Sirius had known they should have simply retreated, apparated away. But they hadn’t helped at all with the capture of Yennington, and whoever had been sending curses at them probably was working for the Dark Lord anyway, and so he had cast at the broom rider, and the Veela had returned fire. Literally._

_Things had gotten a bit out of hand after that. The broom rider had soon found that while it was hard to hit a speeding broom with a spell, it wasn’t that hard to hit it with fireballs. Especially if you sent enough of them at the general area the broom was in._

_And Sirius’s group had found out that while this tactic resulted in a burned broom and rider, it also resulted in a dozen fireballs which had missed, and struck roofs around the brothel. Roofs which apparently hadn’t been as fireproof as they should have been. Then more people had joined the fray, and more fireballs had been thrown. And more wands had been burned. Or cursed. Until they had retired from the field._

They needed more training. But they hadn’t lost anyone. And hadn’t hurt anyone innocent too much. He turned to Valérie, who had appeared at his side. “If anyone asks, we were not involved in that mess.”

*****

“They’ve captured a marked Death Eater.”

Harry Potter looked up from the parchment on his desk when his girlfriend entered the abandoned classroom they had appropriated and interrupted his Ancient Runes homework. Ron was not there, he was studying with Padma. Again.

He blinked. “That was quicker than I expected.” He wasn’t certain how to feel about the fact that there was now a Death Eater imprisoned at Hogwarts. It was a good thing, a blow against the Dark Lord. But it meant that his girlfriend would studying the Dark Mark.

“Yes. Sirius was apparently complaining about not getting to help much with the mission.” Hermione met his eyes. Waiting, Harry realised.

The young wizard almost frowned. He knew just how dangerous those abominations were. Hermione was taking a big risk, even with Dumbledore there. And yet he knew she had been waiting for the opportunity. So he smiled. “That’s good.”

She sighed and walked over to him, sitting down in his lap. Apparently, she had seen through his facade. “I have to do this. You know that.” She ran a finger over his scar, tracing the tissue, before caressing his hair.

“I know. Doesn’t mean I like you taking that risk.” He could stop her. Order her not to. For a brief, weak moment, he considered it. And dropped the thought. He couldn’t do that to her.

“I’m your girlfriend, your retainer, and a muggleborn. I’m already at risk. This is an opportunity we can’t afford to miss.”

He knew that. He still didn’t like it. But Hermione needed it. Needed to be able to do something to help him with … his scar. His enemy. He nodded, and hugged her. “Who told you?”

“Sirius did. He’ll be bringing the computer to Hogwarts too. I told him he couldn’t apparate with it, or portkey or floo travel it.” Hermione kissed his cheek, and snuggled in his lap.

“You mean…”

“Yes. His bike can handle the load.”

“Aren’t you, maybe, being overly cautious? A shrink spell, and Hedwig could have carried it.” His owl wouldn’t be pleased at Sirius usurping her position.

“I hadn’t had the time to test that with a cheap computer.”

Harry frowned and stared at her. “Do you really think that the computer could be affected by magic spells? You said it was the wards, not magic itself, that harmed electronics.”

“Well… certain spells could duplicate some ward’s effects. Or they could affect the electronics. It’s energy, power, after all.” Hermione fidgeted a bit. He knew that expression.

“And you like sending Sirius on an hours-long flight. After telling him he can’t cast any warming charms or other spells to make it more comfortable.” Harry shook his head.

“Well… I still owe him for that last prank.” She grinned.

“And did we really have to carry the package without magic?”

“That might have been a bit overly cautious.” She smiled at him. “But better safe than sorry, right?”

He groaned. “Aren’t you supposed to be the responsible one?”

“I am. Compared to your godfather at least.” She stuck out her tongue at him.

He shook his head again, then kissed her.

On second thought, Sirius deserved it, for corrupting his girlfriend.

*****

Pansy Parkinson watched as the students filled the Great Hall in the evening, taking their seats for the evening meal. It looked like nothing had changed, and yet something should have changed, or so she thought. Draco was dead. He hadn’t been the power he thought, not even within his own house, but he had been more than a common student. More than a Slytherin. His death, his absence, should be felt somehow by the entire school.

And yet, outside her own house, nothing seemed to have changed. No students stared at a spot left empty in his remembrance. Not even Potter seemed to search subconsciously for Draco. Had her former boyfriend really been that insignificant to the Boy-Who-Lived? She didn’t know. But she suspected that this was the case. After all, Potter had been dealing with several attempts on his life, and was one of the Dark Lord’s personal enemies. Why would he care about some silly boy claiming to be his rival?

She remembered how she had been questioned by those Aurors after Draco’s body had been found. It had been a rather distressing experience. A reminder that Hogwarts was just a school, a place for children to learn magic. To fool around. And to delude themselves into thinking that all the games played there mattered. The little games of one-upmanship, the pranking, even the house cup and detentions… Who cared about school feuds when a war was raging outside the school? Who cared about cliques and house points when lives, when entire families were at stake? Apart from that twit Greengrass, of course.

Hogwarts was a safe haven in the middle of a brutal war. And sooner rather than later, Pansy would have to graduate and leave the school.

She saw Crabbe and Goyle sitting down at the end of the table, a number of younger students giving them space. The two hulking wizards looked lost. Even among the Slytherins, they had been the only ones truly affected by Draco’s death. They had been Draco’s shadows, his bodyguards, maybe his only true friends, if he had been able to have any, and he had left them. First when he had run away, then when he had died. She knew many were wondering, privately and not so privately, what the two knew of the entire… tragedy.

Pansy snorted. If the two had known anything, then the Aurors would have found out, and it would have spread through the Ministry. She knew Crabbe and Goyle better than most others. Those two hadn’t the brains to hide anything. If they were a danger to anyone, they’d not be at Hogwarts.

The two Slytherins had always done what Draco ordered them to, and in turn, he had taken care of them. In his own way, at least. She blinked. For all that mattered, they had been Draco’s retainers. Loyal like a Hufflepuff, and dumb as a Gryffindor. Pureblood retainers. A mind-boggling concept. Not something one could talk about without risking a duel.

And now they had lost their ‘Patron’. If they were retainers, Draco’s heir would pick them up. But they weren’t. They were purebloods, after all. Sooner or later someone would slip into Draco’s old position. But for now, everyone in Slytherin was still avoiding them. Afraid of getting involved, exposed, endangered. So predictable.

There was an opportunity for her. She knew them, they knew her - or thought they knew her. And she was pretty certain they were not a danger to her. But were they in danger themselves, just for associating, having associated with Draco? If they were, then so was Pansy herself, probably. So what did she have to lose?

Her still fragile reputation among the other houses, and especially Potter’s circle. Taking Draco’s thugs under her wing wouldn’t help her plans. A month ago, that would have been enough to drop the idea in favor of other prospects. Play some games with Gryffindors, see if she could seduce Weasley in sixth year, sabotage Greengrass’s laughable attempts to land Potter.

But now? Draco’s death had shown that the war wasn’t just a thing that happened to mudbloods. To other people. To adults. She couldn’t count on two more years of safety at Hogwarts. She couldn’t count on the war ending in two years either - the last war, the one people now were calling the First Blood War, had lasted for more than a decade.

It was time to stop playing children’s games, and think ahead, past Hogwarts.

Pansy stood up and walked over to the end of the table, her plate and cup floating after her. Crabbe and Goyle looked up when she was about to sit down next to them, and Goyle scooted a bit over, causing a first year to move away some more, freeing more space for Pansy.

She sat down, smiling at the two. Up close, it was clear that they were not doing well. Crabbe looked tired, and Goyle was pushing his food around. For those two, whom she had seen suffer broken bones without a whimper in Quidditch, that was almost like crying openly. Briefly she wondered if Draco would have shown such a reaction to their death. Or hers.

Then she buried that thought. Draco was dead. Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle were alive. And she’d make sure they all would stay that way.

“We need to talk. After dinner,” Pansy said.

Both wizards nodded. She liked to think they’d look a bit relieved, but she was probably fooling herself. She didn’t know the two that well, after all. Not yet.

*****

“Buggering Broomsticks!”

Ron Weasley heard Hermione hiss in response to his cursing. She’d not admonish him though, even if they were under the effect of a privacy spell. It was still too public for the girl to act like that.

“Look at Parkinson! She’s making a move on Draco’s thugs!” he whispered.

“Oh.” Hermione had missed that, probably due to her reading a book on her lap. If she was this bad already, the coming months before their O.W.L.s would be hell.

Harry glanced over, and muttered a curse of his own under his breath. “Think she wants to become Draco’s replacement?”

“We’ll know when she comes over to our table and sprouts insults and boasts about her family.” Ron scoffed.

“Well, that’s not much of a problem then. More like a nuisance.” Harry sounded almost amused.

“And she’d stop pursuing you in that case,” Hermione added helpfully before taking a sip from the cup hovering near her.

“That would be totally worth the added hassle,” Ron smiled. Things would go back to normal. Flirting snakes were… weird. If they were back to exchanging insults instead of training together, Padma would love it. He would love it too, of course.

“It’s a bit weird though,” Neville cut in, “that she’d split from Draco, and now tries to get his old friends back.

“Friends? I’m not certain Draco understood the meaning of that word.” Hermione scoffed.

“Tools can be a great help in the right hands,” Luna commented while her fork circled around the sausage plate, before diving and spearing two at once. It returned towards her plate, slowly, and the Ravenclaw’s knife rose, starting to cut the sausages apart while they were still in the air.

“Parkinson’s hands are not the right hands though,” Padma said, glaring at the witch in question. Ron only nodded in agreement - he didn’t want another discussion about the Slytherin’s supposedly wandering hands.

“Would you rather have them following Greengrass?” Aicha asked.

“Well, then they’d be looming behind her while she tries to flirt with Harry,” Ron said. That would be funny. Funnier than them looming behind Parkinson while she flirted with himself.

Ginny, Aicha and Luna giggled at that. Harry looked nonplussed and Hermione scowled. Ron’s muggleborn friend was almost as angry at Greengrass as Padma was at Parkinson. It made the self-defense lessons rather interesting. In the Chinese sense, as Hermione would quote some muggle saying. And not in the Japanese sense, as she corrected him often enough.

Maybe things would change now. Hermione was already far too tense, with O.W.L.s, her new project, that other project they couldn’t talk about with anyone, not even their friends, and her parents in hiding. If she ever lost it…

Ron shuddered at the thought.

*****

“Good evening, Harry, Miss Granger. You are right on time.”

“Good evening, Headmaster,” Harry bowed his head slightly while Hermione Granger smiled at Dumbledore. The young muggleborn witch was excited and nervous. This evening she’d finally get to analyse the Dark Mark!

She glanced at Harry. Her boyfriend was smiling politely, but his eyes showed he still didn’t really approve of the whole plan. She understood him, but they had no choice.

“Miss Granger and I will proceed to the special room. My office will be sealed, if anything or anyone needs my presence, please tap this device,” the Headmaster explained while pointing at a slowly rotating contraption on his desk. Usually, Hermione would have wanted to analyse the item, find out how it worked, but not tonight. Tonight she wanted to see the Dark Mark.

Harry nodded at the old wizard, then pulled Hermione into his arms, hugging her briefly. She was surprised, but hugged him back at once.

“Don’t get hurt,” he whispered into her ear before they separated again.

“I won’t.”

The young witch glanced at Dumbledore. Such a display of affection was a bit of a faux pas in in public. The Headmaster acted as if he hadn’t noticed though. He didn’t seem to mind either, judging by his smile.

“Keep an eye on Fawkes, please - and don’t feed him, no matter how much he begs. Otherwise, feel free to peruse my office library here.” The old wizard pointed at a shelf stacked with books. Hermione felt a brief surge of jealousy. She reminded herself of what she would be doing, and that those books were surely not that rare. She still felt a little twinge.

“I wish I could join you,” Harry muttered.

“Unfortunately, your scar makes that a rather dangerous proposition, Harry,” Dumbledore said, smiling gently. “You’ll have to content yourself with ‘holding down the fort’, as the saying goes I believe. Not a glamorous task, but a needed one nevertheless. As far as anyone else knows, with the possible exception of Mister Weasley, you’re receiving special lessons here in my office.”

Hermione hoped she didn’t blush at the mentioning of Ron. He was their best friend, and they’d not keep that from him.

Harry sighed, and sat down on a conjured seat.

Dumbledore nodded. “Let us go then.” A swish of his wand opened a door that hadn’t been there before, revealing a narrow passage. A secret passage. Before Hermione could ask, the Headmaster already answered: “It’s not known to our resident troublemakers. As smart as they are, they haven’t explored the castle as thoroughly as they think.”

Hermione could believe that - even more when, after a few steps, they were in the dungeons. Obviously, this passage used a lot of magic. It might even be formed on demand, and not be permanent. Again, the witch suppressed her curiosity. She had more important things to find out tonight.

With a flick of his wand, the wizard revealed a secret door, and behind it, a laboratory. Well-stocked, and seemingly well-used, but… something was off. She would have expected stricter security. Better defenses. Hermione frowned while she tried to puzzle this out.

She didn’t have to. Dumbledore waved his wand, and a fake wall disappeared, exposing a truly massive door - a vault door, actually. Blinking, Hermione realised it was covered with runes. To cover up her surprise and awe, she said “Gringotts must be jealous.”

Dumbledore chuckled, then touched the door with his wand, causing it to slowly swing open. Behind that was the real laboratory. Marble floors and walls, etched with runes, as Hermione saw.

She followed the Headmaster inside and watched with some trepidation how the door closed behind her. Anything locked up here would never get out. Like the Death Eater who was supposed to be here… ah! He had been disillusioned.

“I trust you deem the location safe enough?”

“Yes, sir.” She was already staring at the left arm of the man, where a torn sleeve exposed his Dark Mark. He wasn’t moving at all, and she’d have thought he was dead, if not for the small tell-tales of … “Draught of Living Death?”

“Exactly, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore beamed at her while he levitated the prisoner to the table in the centre of the room, then vanished his robe. Metal bands slid into place, holding him secure and on the table. She noticed that there were a few differently colored bands - Dumbledore wasn’t taking any chances.

Hermione took a step towards the Death Eater. It was a sensible precaution. While the potion should keep him from waking up, or feeling pain, no one but the Dark Lord himself knew what his mark could do. Yet.

She cast a detection spell, idly noting that Dumbledore tapped his reading glasses, then focused on the black mark. It looked harmless at first. Like a mere tattoo.

“Do you see the enchantments woven into the skin? Almost hidden by the ink, it’s the first layer of deception - and defense.” Dumbledore sounded like he was teaching in a classroom.

“I do. It keeps the mark from fading, and restores it when damaged, or hidden.” Quite clever, though at first sight nothing extraordinary.

“Exactly. Though the marks do fade and grow with Voldemort’s power, so they have a connection. Hidden and buried, protected by the darkest curses. Soul magic.”

Hermione took a deep breath. Soul magic was almost taboo in Wizarding Britain. Most of the known spells were banned. All rituals were. The potential for abuse was too vast. And the consequences of mistakes could literally be worse than death. Very, very carefully, she started to focus on the strands of magic she could see. Even without trying to prod, or unravel them, there was a certain danger - she had read about curses that entranced an observer, trapping them with hypnotic, shifting patterns.

But forewarned was forearmed. She forced herself to look away regularly, to let her attention wander, jump from one part to the next, instead of focusing too much on one enchantment. The Headmaster’s commentary helped, of course - especially when he pointed out things she had missed. Anger at her failures was an excellent way to keep alert and distanced. Or so she told herself.

She was here to observe, to learn, anyway, not to break the curses. That was the Headmaster’s task. And he was working hard, she could see that, as he unraveled, spell by spell, the first layer of the Dark Mark. The entrancing curse, and the enchantments that formed and retained the appearance of the mark. And below them…

Hermione shuddered at the vile stench that seemed to fill the room when Dumbledore’s wand had stripped away the last parts of the first layer. She was choking, bile rising in her throat, until she canceled her detection spell. Panting, she fought against vomiting, retched, but did not lose her meal. It was disgusting, horrible, far worse than feeling a Dementor’s aura. Because despite all that, part of her wanted to recast her spell, to look at it again. The witch shuddered and shivered, hugging herself.

Even the Headmaster seemed affected. He sat down with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. “That was… a tad more powerful than I expected. I fear we have our work cut out for us. It is a very good thing Harry wasn’t with us.”

“That’s… I don’t know. How many layers are there?” Hermione managed to bring her stomach back under her control.

“I cannot say yet. Let us leave the premises - so close to the partially exposed mark, we’ll have a harder time recovering.”

“It’ll take us a long time to unravel the mark, won’t it?”

“Yes, Miss Granger. And we cannot rush this, or we will make a fatal mistake. Or worse, we might be affected by the more subtle effects of it.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Hermione was flattered that the Headmaster was talking as if she was doing anything but observing him and the mark.

Dumbledore tapped the door, opening it, and stepped into the fake laboratory, where he conjured a seat for himself and one for Hermione. As soon as the vault door closed again, the witch felt better, happier. Cleaner.

The Headmaster sighed loudly. “All that lives has to die one day. The horcrux, preventing death, is one of the most fundamentally wrong, unnatural things. It fights against nature itself. As such, it corrupts all it touches. Tom managed to contain that effect, somehow, or all his marked followers would have been easy to spot. When I unraveled part of the mark’s enchantment, part of that containment failed as well, so to speak.”

Merlin! That hadn’t even been the full effect of a horcrux? Hermione gaped.

Dumbledore smiled. “Indeed, Miss Granger, worse things await us. Neither I nor Harry would think ill of you if you’d prefer to…”

“No, sir. I will do and endure what it takes to solve this.” Hermione met his eyes, unflinchingly.

Sighing, the old Wizard nodded, acknowledging her statement. “I didn’t expect any other answer, truth be told. But heed my words: It will be a long, hard journey, and it will leave you changed.”

“I expect that. It’s worth it.” Hermione pushed her chin up. She was no quitter.

“Even if it might cause you to lose the love of he whom you are doing this for?”

She swallowed, then nodded. As long as Harry survived, and was happy...

“I see. He is fortunate, very fortunate, to have your dedication.” He looked rather sad when he said it thought.

The two remained in silence for a few minutes, resting.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Soul magic. It’s practically banned in Britain.”

“And in most civilized magical countries.”

“Some claim a Patronus shows a person’s soul,” Hermione continued. Or their totem spirit, a Native American Shaman would say.

“Ah… that spell shows their spirit, their emotions. Maybe their magic itself. But it doesn’t show a soul. A soul is almost impossible to display. Or to directly affect with magic.”

“And indirectly?” Hermione needed to know how to affect a soul, to destroy Voldemort’s.

“Through our actions, we shape our soul.” Dumbledore spread his hands. “Our deeds, ill or good. Magical or not.”

“And yet there is such a thing as soul magic. Magic that can split a soul, and bind it,” Hermione countered.

“Yes. There are even the darkest rituals that sacrifice a soul.” The Headmaster shuddered for an instant.

“Oh.” That might be a way to achieve what she thought..

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes at her. “Those rituals do not just sacrifice a soul, they also demand a horrible price from the caster. That particular payment is usually delayed until they die though.”

“Oh. I see. Is that the reason he fears death so much?” Was she willing to sacrifice so much for Harry? But then again, there were ways around that, indirect ways, and not those the Headmaster had mentioned.

“Maybe. I might know Tom better than anyone else, but not even I can understand all his thoughts.”

“It makes me wonder though, sir.” Hermione marshalled her courage. “Otherwise, why would he fear death so much, if he knows that there is an afterlife?”

“Ah, Miss Granger. Humans, including wizards and witches, tend to fear what they do not understand. And no one understands the afterlife,” Dumbledore said, nodding gravely at her.

“But… we know souls exist. We know ghosts exist. Why don’t we know what happens after death?” Hermione wasn’t about to ask which religion was correct. She could deduce that, after all.

Dumbledore chuckled, briefly. “But ghosts do not know what happens after death either. They are but mere copies, imprints, of the men and women they were. Like paintings. Actually, wizard paintings originated as an attempt to create a sort of artificial ghost. The ability to copy a memory and pensieves to watch it were developed as the technique was refined over the centuries.”

“So… no one knows what happens when we die. Where our souls go.” That was a sad state of affairs, in her opinion. Such an important question, left unanswered!

“Exactly. For all our knowledge, for all our magic, wizards are left in the same position as muggles where the afterlife is concerned: We can but have faith.” The old wizard smiled. “Let us rejoin Harry in my office. I think we have recovered enough so that he will not be unduly worried.”

Hermione nodded. She felt guilty about deceiving Harry like that, but it was for his own good. She needed to do this, to save him.

*****

Ron Weasley was concerned. Hermione was much quieter than usual, even counting the fact she was studying in their room before today’s Self-defense Club meeting. Some might think she had calmed down, but he knew better. Whatever she had done last night, with Dumbledore, had exhausted her. And shaken her. He looked at Harry, then nodded towards the witch. “Hm?”

Harry shook his head. “She said it’s harder than she thought.” He kept his voice low, then seemed to reconsider and cast a privacy spell.

“That’s all?” Ron was surprised. Hermione wasn’t one to brag, but that sounded like the understatement of the month. She usually was more the lecturing type. She had to be hiding something then.

“That’s all she said.” Harry frowned.

“She doesn’t want you to worry.”

“And that makes me worry even more.” His friend ground his teeth.

“She’s with the Headmaster though, she’ll be fine.” Ron tried to sound more confident than he was.

“That’s what I am telling me to stop myself from…” the wizard trailed off.

“... doing something she’ll make you regret,” Ron finished for him. When Harry stared at him, he chuckled. “Hey, I’m not the smartest guy around, but I know you two, mate.”

“If you know me and her so well, what should I do then?” Harry glared at him.

“Trust her. It’s all about trust. Trust me about that.” He patted Harry’s shoulder.

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Yes. Wish it was different, but… if you don’t trust your girlfriend, things won’t go well.” Ron sighed.

“Padma still has issues?” Harry looked surprised.

“She’s still insecure. Parkinson, Hermione, even Luna can set her off.” Fortunately, Lavender and Parvati couldn’t, anymore.

“Do you trust her?”

“I try.” Ron checked his watch. “It’s time to head out for the club meeting.”

Harry ended the privacy spell, and went to disturb Hermione’s studying. Ron got up, and cleaned up the couch they had been on with a spell. A minute later, they were on the way to the training room.

Trouble found them a corridor away from the club room. Trouble wearing tight dueling robes in Slytherin colors. Parkinson.

“Mister Potter, Mister Weasley, might I have a quick word?” The snake’s voice sounded as polite as her demand required. Pretty formal, but formal had its uses. Especially when talking with a snake, when the alternative was hexing.

Ron wanted to brush her off, but that would have been rude. And Harry was all about not being rude. His friend had learned the rules very well, but he hadn’t learned when those rules could be relaxed. Ron wasn’t sure that could be learned without growing up pureblood.

So it came as no surprise when Harry nodded, and gestured to the closest classroom. “This should serve well. I trust this won’t take long, we have a meeting to attend to.”

“Thank you, Mister Potter. It’s about the lesson I wanted to speak about.” Parkinson smiled. “I’d like two acquaintances of mine to attend as well.”

Merlin’s broken balls! The snake wanted to bring Malfoy’s thugs into the Self-defense Club? Ron stared at the crazy snake. Why wasn’t her hair changing colour, and where were the pimples? Had she broken Hermione’s curse?

“You mean Crabbe and Goyle,” Harry said, and Ron saw how tense he was.

“Yes. I am aware of past … tensions… with your friends, but I spoke with both, and I’m certain they’ll not cause any trouble.” Parkinson smiled, trying to cover up the fact that she had been part of that ‘past tension’ more often than not.

“I find that … difficult to believe.” Harry wasn’t budging. Good!

“Please,” Parkinson’s smile slipped a bit, just a hint of that familiar sneer shining through. “They just did what Draco told them to do, without asking questions. Or thinking twice.”

Ron would have said ‘or thinking’, period. He wasn’t sure if the two Slytherins were as smart as Fang, Hagrid’s stupid dog. He was certain Crookshanks was smarter than the two put together - no one else had spotted the rat animagus, after all.

“And now, with Draco gone, they do what you tell them to?” Harry sounded doubting.

“Yes,” Parkinson nodded, smiling widely.

“Will you take responsibility then, should they act out of line?”

“Yes.” She nodded firmly.

Ron was still staring. His friend couldn’t really consider… he saw Harry glance at Hermione. Damn. He was considering it. And Hermione? The girl was pulling out her schedules. Her cursed schedules.

Ron smiled. That would quickly end this plot. Parkinson might have broken the curse on her, but she wouldn’t be able to break the curse on the two thugs. Then he frowned. If Parkinson had broken the curse on her, then she’d know about the curse, and wouldn’t try to sneak Crabbe and Goyle in the club without having taken counter-measures.

Damn.

*****

Pansy Parkinson, taking a break after several stinging hexes had broken through her shield and hit her rump, was surprised how easy it had been to get her two new… acquaintances trained with the rest of the club. Given their history, and her own, with Potter, she’d have expected a lot more opposition, even with her using the old forms Potter was so fond of. Simply stating she’d take responsibility for their actions shouldn’t have been enough. She knew, now at least, she was not that convincing, and that Potter and especially his mudblood retainer, were not that dumb.

That meant they had a second wand hidden up their sleeve. And seeing as Potter was one of the Dark Lord’s personal enemies, it probably wouldn’t be something prepared by Granger, but something serious.

Pansy glanced at Sirius Black, Potter’s godfather, head of the Black Family, and heir to Malfoy’s gold if the rumors from the Ministry were to be believed. He cut a dashing figure, clad in dark duelling robes, with a Veela at his side and another nearby. Charming too, especially with the witches. The Greengrass twit was fluttering her eyes at him so often, she’d float away if she was a bit less top heavy.

Pansy almost snorted. He was a Black. Underneath the charming facade, he was the head of the darkest, most feared family in Britain. The first person, ever, to break out of Azkaban. After spending over a decade in that prison. Bellatrix Lestrange’s cousin.

The witch shivered. She didn’t want to run afoul of such a person. Whatever measures he had taken to keep Potter safe wouldn’t be aimed at pranking children, but at Death Eaters. And given his family, she’d likely have nightmares just seeing their effects.

Maybe she shouldn’t have taken Crabbe and Goyle under her wing. She trusted them not to do something stupid without orders, but did she trust them with her life? How far would Black go, should they mess up, in forcing her to take responsibility? If Black followed the old laws…

She shivered. She’d better make certain, again, that her two acquaintances behaved. They were currently training with Weasley. Which meant they were getting hexed while trying to cast shield charms. That wasn’t a good thing. Both were slow to anger, but if they ever got going...

*****

“Mister Weasley, might I have a word? In private?”

Ron Weasley, waiting for the other students to leave the room after the club’s meeting had ended, frowned for an instant before smiling politely at the snake. “Of course.” He ignored the way she nodded at the door, and simply cast a privacy spell, enjoying the way her eyes widened in surprise and hopefully annoyance. It wasn’t quite rude to deliberately miss her intention, but it wasn’t exactly polite either. But not even his mother would scold him for not going somewhere private with Parkinson.

Hearing the faint buzz that indicated no one would be listening in, and after making sure his friends were keeping an eye on him - not that Padma would be leaving him out of hers - he smiled at the Slytherin. “How can I help you, Miss Parkinson?”

“You could help me by not trying to curse Crabbe and Goyle into the Infirmary,” she spat out while glaring at him.

“Pardon? I’ve been tutoring them. Everyone got cast at. You were hexed quite often as well.” Ron used his height to glower down at her.

“I can cast a decent shield charm. They can’t. And they won’t be learning anything if all they can do is getting hit with hexes.” She didn’t seem to be intimidated by his height.

“They’ll learn. Stinging hexes are a great motivation.”

“I know them. They won’t. They’ll learn how to ignore the hexes, instead of trying to shield against them.”

Ron blinked. “That’s stupid!” Trying to ignore pain, instead of trying to avoid it?

“That’s them.” She was still glaring at him, so that probably hadn’t been a joke. “So, stop hexing them until they can cast a shield reliably!”

“Shouldn’t they have learned that by now?” The look she shot at him told him enough.

“I’ll go easy on them then.” He almost added ‘are you happy now?’, as if he was not talking to a snake.

“Thank you.” She nodded at him, a brief smile on her face, then turned away. Probably to collect the the two thugs before they got lost in the castle.

Ron dropped the privacy spell, and shook his head, grinning. He still didn’t know what Parkinson was planning, but he had foiled it at least for today, and without knowing it. And she had lost her smug flirty act too.

When he noticed Padma’s glare, and Harry’s and Hermione’s raised eyebrows, he thought that maybe, he shouldn’t have grinned so much right after talking with Parkinson.

*****

After several months of visits, Viktor Krum was getting used to muggle Britain. Or at least, muggle London. While there was no magic, and the clothes were a bit too prude for his taste, and there were too many muggles around, it offered advantages over Wizarding Britain that were very hard to beat. He could walk around without drawing a crowd of fans. He could walk around without having to fear an attack by Death Eaters. And he could walk around with Nymphadora Black-Tonks.

His girlfriend’s fascination with the muggle world hadn’t been a passing fancy. Almost every time he visited, they went ‘clubbing’ in London. Or shopping. Like today. They had just been in a ‘records’ shop, and were now on their way to another.

“You know, it’s weird that muggles are still so prude, with that kind of advertising,” he said, pointing at the picture - not a moving one, unfortunately - of a barely-clad girl that covered the part of a house.

Nymphadora looked at it, then nodded. “They only wear that on the beach, and in the movies, but they show it in the city.” She ran a hand over her own clothes. “But they’re making progress. This outfit isn’t that bad.”

Viktor had to agree - his girlfriend looked quite fetching in those muggle clothes. Mostly leather, black and glossy. And not too much of it.

“Did you know that more wizards and witches are visiting the muggle world than ever before? I’ve heard the Obliviator Corps is complaining about having much more work too. They apparently lay the blame on Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, even though that’s just an elective.” Nymphadora grinned.

“Are they genuinely interested in muggles, or simply fleeing the war?”

The grin vanished. “The latter. I hope a number will discover just how fascinating muggle culture is, but most simply want to be able to relax without fear. Gringotts is probably making a killing too, exchanging galleons for muggle paper money.”

She still looked a bit sad, so he pulled her close to him and kissed her cheek. Which led to her pulling his head around and kissing him ‘properly’. Later, when they heard a few teenagers whistling, they broke apart. Viktor glared at the insolent children, but they only laughed and passed them. Nymphadora giggled.

He nodded at a muggle restaurant. “Let’s get something to eat.”

It wasn’t a McDonald’s, nor a fish and chips shop, but an Italian restaurant. Which meant pasta or pizza. They chose one of each, and shared. And fed each other. Viktor loved that kind of casual intimacy. Just two lovers, eating together.

When they were waiting for their dessert - tiramisu - he addressed the manticore in the room again. “How is the war going?”

His girlfriend frowned. “Not bad, not well. We kill them, they kill us. So far we seem to be killing more of them than we’re losing, but no one has any idea how many wands the Dark Lord has.”

“My family owes the Dark Lord a debt of blood.” Lala. The Dark Lord had been behind that attack, that much was now clear. Whether or not the man blamed for it had been a patsy, or a middleman, didn’t matter. Blood called for blood.

“Are you asking if you can come over and join the war?” Nymphadora’s eyes widened in surprise.

A number of his relatives, first among them is brother, wanted just that. Viktor had, so far, managed to convince them they shouldn’t. “If we’re needed. We’re not that many, but we have many friends.”

“So far we’re holding out fine, and I’m not certain the Ministry would be thrilled to drag your family into the war. Fudge hates looking weak,” Nymphadora explained, leaning back. “But I’ve heard that Dumbledore expects the Dark Lord to look to the continent for more recruits.”

He understood at once. “And that means, recruiters will appear.”

“Yes. Some of the Headmaster’s friends are supposedly already working against them, but they are few, and the continent is big.”

“I’ll pass it along. My country’s got a history on the Balkans.” A bloody one, dating back to before the wars that had bought their freedom from the Ottoman Empire.

“Thank you.” Nymphadora smiled, and rolled her neck, getting rid of a few kinks. He appreciated the effect that had on her tight top.

“There’s something else I’d like to ask.” He had been wanting to ask for months now. Hesitating, doubting. But they were at war. Nymphadora was at the frontlines, even. Time might be running out any day.

“Yes?” she cocked her head slightly to the side, looking at him.

“I’d like to send my best friend to visit your family.”

She gasped. A good sign - she knew what that meant, which meant she knew about the Bulgarian traditions. The wide smile that broke out on her face was an even better sign, as were the tears in her eyes.

But the best sign was how she grabbed his shirt, and pulled him halfway over the table to kiss him.

*****

Gilderoy Lockhart smiled indulgently at the 6th year witch who was trying to seduce him. Not that he wasn’t tempted, she was very pretty, and her robes left little to the imagination, but… he was a teacher. “I’m afraid, Miss Waters, that for tutoring, you should ask Professor Lupin. I am covering the lower years.”

“But isn’t it a good idea to review the basics as well? I’m sure it would help my upcoming N.E.W.T. year studies very much if I could go over what I might have missed in my earlier years. It’s been a long time, after all, since I was a first year.” Waters was not giving up easily, he had to admit. She was leaning forward slightly, her robes parting a tiny but more, and her eyes were big, and pleasing. And promising.

“That is true, but I wouldn’t want to put my colleague out by poaching, so to speak,” he began to let her down, again.

“Someone mentioned poaching? And didn’t inform me?” The cheery voice of Jenny interrupted him. Waters jerked, then frowned - she didn’t like Gilderoy’s best friend.

The famous author smiled widely at her though. “Jenny! What news do you bring us?”

“We’ve finished another lesson without serious wounds. Almost boring.”

He forced himself to laugh louder than usual, even though he wasn’t certain she was joking.

“And who’s that?” Jenny smiled at Waters, who winced in return. Gilderoy could understand that - Jenny had her toothy smile on. The kind she used to scare annoying tourists - or class XXX creatures.

“That’s Miss Waters. She was asking for tutoring, and I was just about to refer her to Remus.”

“Ah, good idea! But you might want to watch your robe, Miss - he might get the wrong impression if you show up like this.”

“Thank you, Miss Jenny,” Waters forced herself to say, and then fled his office with almost undue haste.

Jenny closed the door with a wave of her wand, then fell into the next seat, propping up her boots on the couch table. Gilderoy cast a scourgify on both boots and table. Spider ichor stains were hard to get out if left alone for too long.

“So, the chits are still trying to get in your pants.” She shook her head slightly at him.

He nodded, sighing. “Mister Potter is, unfortunately, not willing to take them off my hands. Even though he would be a far more proper target for their affections and offers.”

“Smart wizard.” A flick of her wand summoned a bottle of beer. Her own stash, which had somehow ended up in his office. She probably had bottles of that stuff placed all around the castle by now. ‘Cached’ she called it, making depots with foods for an expedition.

“So, how goes the research?”

“Oh, it’s going well. We’ve managed to cross the two spiders, and enlarge them. Now all we need to do is to create a spell that conjures the result.” She must have noticed his expression, since she frowned. “Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s a tall order. You wouldn’t know a spellcrafter, by chance, who is taking commissions and won’t sell the result to interested parties?”

“Actually, I think I can help you out there.”

He loved the way her expression softened when she was truly surprised. And impressed.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort frowned when he entered the basement where Steinberg worked, and by all accounts, lived as well. He smelled fresh blood. Again. That likely meant another experiment had failed.

“Milord!” Steinberg greeted him, stepping over the mass of flesh blood and bones in the middle of the testing room that probably had been a wizard or witch a short time ago.

“Steinberg. Another failure?” He nodded at the corpse.

“Yes, but a promising one. The wand remained stable for far longer than before. A few more experiments, and they should be ready for deployment.” The wandmaker smiled eagerly.

Voldemort kept his annoyance hidden. Steinberg was one of the best wandmakers he knew, and it wouldn’t do to antagonize him needlessly. Even though his special wands were still not ready to be used by anyone but expendable curse fodder. Which he hadn’t that many at his disposal anymore. “And when will they be as stable as normal wands?”

“Oh, that’s hard to say. This is a new field of the Dark Arts, after all, and so I might need to try out several ways to reinforce them.” The wizard suddenly seemed to understand the reason for the question. “Did your plans change?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I think your masterworks shouldn’t be wasted on weak expendable fodder, but used by my best followers, in a surprise strike against the heart of my enemies.“

“Oh. That will take more time then. I was focusing on gaining the best results for about one week - enough for an important mission and some safety margin. For a permanently stable wand, I would… hm…” Steinberg rubbed his chin, heedless of the streak of blood that left on his pale skin.

“Do you best, wandmaker, and you will make history.”

“Of course! I need more experiments though.”

And that meant he needed more subjects to experiment on. Which meant another drain on his dwindling pool of hired wands. But it would be the height of foolishness to use prisoners for these kind of experiments. “I will send a volunteer down. But you’d best clean up this mess, or he might get spooked.”

“Of course, of course!”

The Dark Lord left the wandmaker’s realm, and returned to his study. One problem was taken care of, even if it was a minor one, and showed great promise still. That left another problem to be tackled, before he could focus on his main plan.

The prophecy. He still needed to get his hands on the prophecy. But he hadn’t found any wizard or witch yet that had been the subject of another prophecy, and therefore would be allowed to enter the Hall of Prophecies. Suddenly, his eyes widened. He hadn’t found one - but maybe he could create one. Fake one.

All he needed was the words of a prophecy that hadn’t come to pass yet, and he could find someone who would fit.

It was time to sift through any works on Divination he could find.

*****


	35. Preparations

**Chapter 35: Preparations**

Bertram Kettlestock kept a smile on his face even though he wanted to sneer at the mercenaries and criminals gathered in this dingy tavern in southern Albania. Scum, all of them, willing to hire on with You-Know-Who. Most of them were from the Balkans, but more than a few hailed from all over Europe.

Near the door stood two wizards wearing the black robes of Grindelwald’s Storm Wizards - but they were far too young to have been born during that Dark Lord’s reign, much less having fought for him. They had the arrogant attitude though, the one Bertram remembered from his time as an Auror dealing with some veterans from that war. Hopefully they’d not have the aptitude for dark curses as well. Across from them, and glaring at the pair, were three French or Belgian wizards. Nondescript robes, shifty attitudes - they looked more like thieves than mercenaries. Of course, appearances could be deceiving. Near them stood a witch wearing the robes of one of the Swiss Militias, with the canton’s emblem torn off. A spaniard bravo was trying to chat the witch up, but judging by her bored expression, the wizard was not having much luck.

And there was Bertram himself, disguised as a former British Hit-Wizard, who had left the country after the last war. In his opinion, Hit-Wizards were more likely to go mercenary after a war than Aurors, having trained for and knowing nothing but combat. And even though he had left the Auror Corps, he still wouldn’t want to see its reputation tarnished.

But the majority of the two dozen wands in the tavern were Greeks and Albanians. Clearly separated into two groups, watching each other, hands twitching each time a wand was drawn to summon another drink from the bar. No one among them seemed to have forgotten the past, when Albanian wizards had been the Ottoman’s auxiliaries in the Greek War of Independence. Not that the feuding ever had ended.

Bertram didn’t know if this was normal for this tavern - a meeting spot for mercenaries - or if tonight was a special occasion. He did know though that it wouldn’t take a lot to spark a fight, and ruin the recruiting that was supposed to be going on. Or at least, ruin half of the possible recruits for You-Know-Who.

He took a sip from his ale, to mask his sneer. The scum in here deserved to die for even thinking about joining the murderer of his family. Bertram had done a lot he wasn’t proud of after quitting the Ministry. But there were lines he had never crossed. He had killed, but not murdered. Least of all children.

For a moment his eyes wandered over to the young witch among the Greeks. She looked barely old enough to pass her O.W.L.s. But she was here, and therefore she wasn’t a child anymore, but scum. Had to be. He emptied his glass and summoned another, after banishing a few coins to the bartender. He wasn’t here to care about some foreign scum, no matter their age. He was here to foil You-Know-Who’s plan. To prevent more murders in Britain. Like those that had claimed his family. His daughter… she would be studying for her N.E.W.T.s now, had she lived. His eyes wandered back to the Greek witch. She had the same hair as Seren.

The man next to the witch had noticed his staring, and was glaring at Bertram. He looked away. How much longer were the recruiters taking? He had been hunting those two wizards for two weeks now, and this was the first such meeting he had heard of. You-Know-Who must be pretty desperate for wands, if he was trying to recruit like this. Especially if they were inviting Greeks and Albanians into the same tavern. Hadn’t Aberforth cautioned him that You-Know-Who was very familiar with Albania? It made no…

His blood seemed to freeze. It made no sense. Unless this was a trap. For him. His hand went into his pocket, gripping his emergency portkey. One muttered word, and he would be whisked away to a safe house. Unless wards had been erected to block that.

He withdrew his hand. He could still get away. Step out to relieve himself, then flee on a broom, if apparition didn’t work. But if this was a trap, they’d be watching for that too. No, he had better chances if he stuck it out.

He banished another coin at the bartender, and summoned his next beer. He was here as a hired wand down on his luck and deep in his cups. A role he was quite familiar with, which was why he had been approached by Aberforth. He wasn’t quite as familiar with the area as the older wizard - he hadn’t fought in the Intervention, hadn’t battled Barbary raiders and Ottoman Janissaries until the Magical Porte had finally caved in - but he was younger, and less well known.

The door opened, and everyone tensed up as wands were drawn. A figure in a dark robes entered, face hidden by the white mask of a Death Eater. Everyone stared for a second, some hissing in surprise. Even the Germans briefly lost their arrogant sneer. The wands for hire had known who was doing the hiring, but to see someone openly walk around in Death Eater garb… that was a brazen move.

The former Auror wondered who was behind that mask. And who would be waiting, nearby, to spring the trap. Death Eaters never arrived alone, the cowards always came in numbers. They would be watching. Waiting for him to betray himself.

The Death Eater walked towards the bar, his wand summoning a chair from one of the Albanians who had jumped up at his entrance. Without breaking stride, the wizard used the chair as a step to stand on top of the bar, looking down at the assembled crowd.

“Greetings. I speak for the Dark Lord.” The masked wizard had a slight accent - a local recruited by You-Know-Who during his ‘exile’, maybe?

The murderer went on to prattle about the honour of fighting for You-Know-Who - as if anyone here gave a damn about honour - and the opportunities it offered, before finally coming to the real argument: The gold offered. It was a sizeable sum. More generous than Bertram and Aberforth had expected, after the loss of the Malfoys. Far too generous, to be exact, for anyone but an actual veteran from Grindelwald’s War.

Bertram stood up and sneered at the Death Eater. “What’s your game? That much gold, for that kind of scum?” He glanced over at the Greeks, scoffing. They bristled, and the Albanians laughed. “That’s the kind of rates people offer who don’t expect to actually pay up!”

That got the attention of the wands. Among the mercenaries, there were always rumors, stories, of employers who promised gold, hoping the hired wands would die before they’d get paid. Or arranged such an event.

“The Dark Lord is generous to those who fight for him,” the Death Eater said. Bertram still hadn’t spotted the others who had to be around.

“The Dark Lord isn’t a fool though.” He walked into the middle of the tavern, facing the Death Eater - and placing himself between the Greek and Albanians. “That scum there would curse their own family for a tenth of that sum. Or sell their daughters and mothers.” He leered at the witch.

As expected, that did the job. Wands were raised, and Bertram flung himself to the side, conjuring a slab of stone as a cover against the curses sent towards him. A few of the curses went wide, as he had hoped, and struck the Albanians. One of them hadn’t been quick enough with a shield and must have been wearing robes with shoddy protections, since he fell down, screaming and clutching his stomach. Bertram saw the man’s belly starting to swell, like a balloon, before he had to shield himself against more curses.

He didn’t hear the sound the cursed man’s belly made when it popped. He didn’t miss the blood and worse splattering half the tavern though. Nor the screams of rage as the Albanians struck back.

As the meeting turned into a chaotic, lethal brawl, and the Greeks turned their attention to the Albanians and away from him, Bertram grinned, and shot a volley of spells at the Death Eater, who was still standing on top of the bar. The criminal was too slow to react, and Bertram felt elated when a Piercing Curse shattered the protections from the man’s robes, and his Bludgeoning Curse smashed into the Death Eater’s mask. The man was thrown into the mirror behind the bar, then fell down, leaving a red trail on the reinforced glass.

That had been too easy… the Death Eater had to have been expecting an attack, if this was a trap. Bertram cursed himself. The man had been bait, he realised. Expendable, maybe imperiused bait. And he had fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

He had to get out! Bertram tried apparating to the back of the room, but failed. The front door was closer, but they would be waiting there. He needed a distraction, and quickly. Pointing his wand at the centre of the room, he unleashed Fiendfyre.

It was a desperate move, but as expected, not even a Balkan blood feud was enough to keep the mercenaries fighting in the face of cursed fire threatening to burn them all to ashes. Yelling and screaming, everyone still alive scrambled for the door and windows. The people waiting in ambush outside would have a lot of targets to curse.

He sent a blasting hex at the nearest window and pulled out his shrunken broom. The window wasn’t destroyed though. He turned around. The people were panicking now, trying to open the other windows, or the door - without any success.

Bertram and everyone else were trapped inside the tavern. Facing Fiendfyre he had deliberately let go out of control. He saw the young witch lie on the ground, dead or knocked out, close to the fire, and summoned her to him.

She was already dead. He placed her body gently on the ground as the fire approached, then turned his wand on himself.

*****

Hermione Granger stared at the little - or not so little - abomination in the unbreakable and enlarged jar on the table. The cat-sized spider was hitting the jar’s transparent walls with half its legs and snapping its mandibles open and shut, as if it was trying to break through and attack her. It probably was, she realised - the cross between a Redback Spider and a Sidney Funnel-web Spider looked rather aggressive, and at least one of those spiders was known to prey on larger animals.

“How many laws were broken when you bred that?” She pointed at the jar, suppressing a shudder when the spider redoubled its effort to break out.

“None!” Miss Jenny - Jungle Jenny - declared with a wide and slightly smirking smile.

“Pardon?”

“The British Ministry of Magic only banned cross-breeding magical creatures. That’s a magically crossbred and enhanced muggle spider!” Jenny grinned.

“Oh.” That sort of oversight shouldn’t have surprised Hermione - wizards had a tendency to underestimate muggle dangers. “Completely legal then… “

“Exactly!” Judging by the beaming smile of the Australian Witch, she either ignored or hadn’t noticed Hermione’s sarcasm.

“And you want me to create a spell that conjures such spiders.” Quite ingenious. Conjured or transfigured animals didn’t possess magical powers, so most of the most dangerous magical animals were not that dangerous if conjured. But muggle venom would work perfectly well.

“Yes.” The witch nodded. She was wearing her usual robe. The witch claimed it was a gift from an Aboriginal Shaman, but Hermione had her doubts. It bore more than a passing resemblance to the outfits usually seen in Tarzan movies. To think that Luna had already wondered if she’d have more success hunting Snorkacks wearing a similar outfit...

“That way we’ll avoid the danger of such spiders escaping into the wilderness”, Professor Lockhart said. He was clad in teacher’s robes, in a tone of blue that suited his hair nicely.

“And trouble with the ICW for threatening the Statute of Secrecy,” Hermione added. The spiders would probably mistaken for the results of genetic manipulation, but there was no need to explain that - the threat of the ICW getting involved might protect Britain from suffering a magical invasive species.

“That too, yes.” Lockhart nodded. Jenny shrugged - the witch didn’t seem to have a high opinion of the International Confederation of Wizards.

“I’ll have to observe the spiders, and probably dissect one or two.” Hermione wasn’t looking forward to that. But the promise of a swarm of those spiders, with their potent venom… That would be a nasty surprise for the Death Eaters.

Miss Jenny made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Oh, no problem. We’ve got about four dozen of them. We’d have had more, but the spiders are cannibalistic and the older ones ate their younger siblings.”

Four dozen of them! If Ron knew… Not for the first time Hermione cursed the twins and their pranks, which had traumatized her friend as a child.

“I’ll see what I can do then.” She was already considering how best to approach this task. The Snake Conjuring spell would be a nice base to build upon, but she hadn’t analyzed its formula in depth so far - an oversight, given that Harry was a parselmouth, and would be able to use snakes far better than anyone else but others who shared that gift.

“Good! Me and Hagrid can then work on our next project!” Miss Jenny jumped down from the desk she had been sitting on, smiling.

“Ah, Jenny… what are you planning to create now?” the professor asked, his voice betraying the same dread Hermione was feeling.

“Nothing illegal!” came the quick reply.

That didn’t sound too reassuring, not after Hermione had seen what kind of legal monsters the Australian witch and the half-giant professor had created.

“Jenny…” Professor Lockhart glared at her.

“OK, OK… we’re going to cross a Saltwater crocodile with a Spitting Cobra. If all goes well, we’ll have a creature as tough and strong as the crocodile, as fast as the snake, and able to spit venom more than 20 yards!”

Hermione and Professor Lockhart stared at each other with matching expressions of horror while Miss Jenny left the professor’s office.

“At least it won’t be flying?” the professor tried to see a silver lining.

“Not yet,” Hermione said, shaking her head.

“I’m rather certain that that would require magic, and therefore would be illegal.” Lockhart’s smile lacked his usual confidence though.

“Professor, do you really think that will stop them? And even so… there’s the example of the pteranodons.”

“The what?”

Hermione hoped that if Lockhart was not familiar with the fauna of the Cretaceous, Hagrid and Miss Jenny wouldn’t be either.

*****

“Mathilda? Are you home?”

That was Aberforth’s voice. Mathilda Miller stood up when she heard the call from her Floo connection. The two Aurors she was still sharing the safehouse with looked up from where they were writing and reading reports together, but didn’t move.

“Yes, I am, Abe. What’s going on?” What would make him call at this hour?

“Can I come through?”

“Of course.” She grinned a bit at how the two Aurors twitched at hearing that - Aberforth had made a big impression on those two. And on the walls where he had trained them. With them, usually.

Her levity disappeared though as soon as her old friend stepped out of the Floo connection and she saw his expression. He wasn’t bringing good news. Before he could say anything, she asked: “Who died?”

“No one died. But Bertram hasn’t been heard of in three days.” Aberforth sighed.

Mathilda closed her eyes, and shuddered. She knew well what that meant. Bertram Kettlestock, one of her closest friends. One of those lovers she remembered fondly, too.

“He could be simply out of reach of an owl,” Abe said.

She looked at him until he grimaced and admitted: “I know. It’s unlikely. But it’s not impossible. That’s why I’m heading down there.”

“What?” He was leaving the country?

“I’m heading to Albania.”

“But…” Mathilda trailed off. Asking what that would mean for her safety seemed petty when Bertram might still be alive, and in need of help.

“That’s why I’m here. I want you three to play it safe while I’m away. No spying or skulking.”

“We can’t sit the war out!” Kenneth, as expected, bristled at the suggestion. His partner remained silent - so far.

“I’m not telling you to sit it out, boy. I’m telling you to take a break while I check up on Albania. It won’t take long.” Aberforth glared at the Auror, and Mathilda winced in sympathy when Kenneth sat down.

“Do you really expect your friend to be still alive?” Bertha asked, sounding even colder than usual in Mathilda’s opinion.

“If he’s still alive, then he’ll need help. If he’s dead, then someone needs to finish his job. We can’t have the Dark Lord hire all the scumbags of the continent to throw at our people,” Aberforth stated. “I should have gone myself in the first place, I know the grounds there,” he added in a lower voice.

“You knew the country. A few decades ago,” Mathilda corrected him. The old wizard shouldn’t be blaming himself - Bertram, like everyone else of their friends, had known the risks. And they all knew what they owed to Aberforth. She knew though that Abe wouldn’t see it like that. He felt responsible for them all. In that he was like his brother, not that she’d ever tell him that.

“It hasn’t changed that much. A number of my old contacts will still be around. And I’ve got a few favors to cash in as well, with some of the clan heads there,” Aberforth stated.

There wasn’t much Mathilda could say to that. Abe was set on going. And no one, probably not even his brother, could stop him when he was so set on something. So she nodded. “We’ll sit tight. Even if I have to sit on him,” she added, pointing at Kenneth.

“Good.” Aberforth looked at the two Aurors. “Keep her safe.” He nodded at Mathilda and turned towards the Floo.

“Abe!” She wasn’t about to let another old friend disappear like that. He turned around, and she hugged him. “You be careful too. You have to come back, you hear?”

“I will,” he whispered, patting her back.

She loosened her grip on him, and watched him step into the Floo connection, her eyes watering.

Neither of the two Aurors commented on her tears, or tried to offer condolences. They all had lost people before, friends, comrades, and knew how hollow such words were. Instead, Bertha summoned more tea for all of them.

Mathilda would start to tease the two Aurors again soon. Change the topic, change the mood. But for now, she wanted to remain like this for a bit longer, remembering her friend.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort read the missive that had just been delivered by an elf, then passed it on to Bellatrix. The dark witch glanced at it, pursing her lips. “My husband and his brother seem quite optimistic about their efforts. They report the killing of an agent of Dumbledore, but do not go into many details.”

“Do you think they are covering up a mistake?” Voldemort trusted the two Lestrange brother’s loyalty to him. “Apart from the fact that they should have captured and interrogated the agent.”

Bellatrix frowned. “Apart from that they only mention trapping the agent and baiting him with an imperiused impostor. They do not even describe their enemy.”

“Indeed.” Voldemort showed her a news article from Greece.

Bellatrix quickly read it, then looked at him. “A tavern in the border region was burned to the ground when Greek and Albanian mercenaries started a fight?”

“I think thats the incident Rodolphus and Rabastan refer to.” Voldemort summoned the article back to him.

“In other words, they don’t even know if they managed to kill their target. They just assumed it worked. Why am I not surprised?” The witch’s voice was dripping with contempt.

The Dark Lord was reminded of the saying ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’, and didn’t mention that the Lestrange brothers were skilled wizards, even though they hadn’t weathered Azkaban as well as Bellatrix. “They’ve hired a few promising wands already.”

Bellatrix scoffed, but didn’t dispute his words. Instead she looked at the book he had been perusing, before the message had disturbed him. “Did you have any success yet, my lord?”

He frowned. “No. So far I have not found any other subject of a prophecy. My … sources in the Ministry haven’t yet managed to procure more information.” Such as the resumes of seers applying for a job at the Ministry, which would list any prophecies they had ever made. “Although I have not given the matter my full attention.”

“Oh?” Bellatrix licked her lips.

“Yes.” He pointed at a tome on his desk.

The witch ran her hands over the leather cover. She looked puzzled, then her eyes widened. “That’s…”

“Yes. Apparently, the author decided he didn’t like to waste the skin.” Peculiar, but not unexpected, given the subject of the book. And the author.

Bellatrix opened the book, with only a slight sneer showing her distaste. Soon she gasped, and once again met his eyes, smiling widely.

He nodded at her. “Yes. Once I have mastered this, the war will be won.”

“Yes, Master!”

*****

“If Ron saw that…” Harry Potter shook his head at the unnaturally large spider in the glass cage, then winced at the slight pain that caused - since it was the full moon that day, Mad-Eye had given one of his lessons in Defense. A practical one. With him as a helper. Hermione had been furious at the old Auror.

“He would be out of the room in a second. So, it’s a good thing he’s snogging Padma,” Hermione said without looking up from her notes.

“He might like to see you kill another one though.” He wasn’t looking at the spread out remains of the last spider his girlfriend had dissected. Watching Hermione butcher it had been unsettling enough. But he’d not let her work with such a dangerous monster by herself. Just one bite, and she might not be able to reach the bezoar in time. Sure, she said she was wearing robes enchanted against venom - and fetching robes they were, suited for her figure - but there was a reason Aurors worked with a partner and pilots had wingmen.

“Maybe. You can ask him if he wants to dispose of them once the spell is finished.” Hermione’s tone made it clear that she didn’t think their friend would want to.

“Are you certain Hagrid and Jenny will let you destroy their creations?” As far as Harry knew, they seemed rather protective of any animals, even monsters like that spider, who looked like it was trying to kill them.

“I’ll ask the Headmaster for support. I’m certain he’ll agree that the risk of such a spider escaping is too big. Do you remember the Aurors fighting the acromantulas in our second year?” The witch raised an eyebrow at him.

Shuddering, Harry nodded. “Yes. Though those are smaller, far smaller.”

“That just means they can hide even better. And their venom is worse.”

Harry blinked. The spiders were even more dangerous than he had thought. “You didn’t tell me that when you told me about the project.”

Hermione flinched a bit. “I mentioned their venom was worse than that of the the two base spiders’.”

“I’m not exactly an expert on muggle spiders. Or on Australia.” Apart from assuming that everything down there was poisonous and trying to kill tourists, especially wizards.

“Sorry. Next time I’ll do a lecture.” She grinned, though still a bit ruefully.

He groaned. “There’s a middle ground between too little, and too much information.”

“That can’t be true since there’s no such thing as too much information!” Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.

“I think most people will…” Harry didn’t get any further as pain shot through his scar, blood started running down his face and he lost his balance.

_The man in front of him was struggling on the slab of marble, pulling on his bonds, ripping his ragged clothes further. He looked desperate and afraid - and with good cause. The moon was rising, and soon the creature on the altar would change into a beast._

_Next to him stood his beautiful lover, Bellatrix, smiling at the doomed animal, wand ready, until the moon rose above the treeline. The man changed, then and there, fur sprouting, and bones broke as they changed shape, and transformed the man’s shape into a monster’s. Normal restraints would have been broken, but those were magical, imbued with silver. Painful, but effective. The beast was thrashing, smoke rising from its wrists and ankles, where the bonds held it fast, and its maw was wide open - if not for the silence spell, the howling would be heard in the whole forest. It was useless, of course - the werewolf would not escape._

_Around them, small lights lit up, one by one, touched by the light of the full moon, forming a circle. And between them silvery bands of runes appeared, floating just above the ground. It was a rather simple arrangement, he noted. Easy even._

_Harry held out his hand, and Bellatrix handed him a silver knife. He wondered, briefly, if the beast saw it, and redoubled its efforts, or if those frenzied movements were a normal reaction to being bound by magic. It didn’t matter. He carefully placed the tip of the knife on the monster’s chest, causing more smoke to rise from the burning fur, and broke the skin, opening the monster up below its ribcage._

_It took a while to remove the heart - werewolves were a bit more different from humans than he had expected - but after a while, the monster had stopped thrashing, and he was holding the heart up, towards the moon, and all the runes floating around were shining brighter and brighter._

_Success._

“Harry! Harry!”

He wasn’t in the forest clearing anymore. He was on the ground. He wasn’t holding a still twitching heart in his blood-covered hands. But his hands were covered with blood - his blood. He hadn’t murdered a werewolf. He had fallen down, and hurt his head.

No, that pain wasn’t the result of a fall. It came from his scar. As did the blood.

Harry felt faint, and only dimly noticed more people arriving. Even the shriek and curses from Ron when he spotted the spiders sounded like some background noise. Hermione was holding him, clutching him to her chest. Crying.

Then he was floating, out of her arms, out of the room, and knew no more.

*****

Albus Dumbledore watched Harry and Miss Granger enter his office. The boy had been treated by Poppy last night, but he still looked shaken. Not that there had been much that could be treated. The scar had stopped bleeding before they had reached the infirmary, and a potion had replaced what blood he had lost. The witch at his side was far closer than usual, holding his arm. Understandable, given the events.

“Please have a seat, Harry, Miss Granger.” He smiled encouragingly at them. Once they were seated - still holding hands - he continued: “You’ve had another vision.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry sighed, then drew the memory out of his temple. Albus knew Harry didn’t want to review the vision, but Miss Granger seemed torn between staying with her Patron, and watching what had upset him so. But if she went, then Harry would come as well. And Miss Granger knew that. And she wouldn’t want him to go through that again.

“I’ll not be long. Feel free to peruse my library,” Albus said, nodding towards the shelves in his office. He didn’t smile when Miss Granger’s eyes lit up, as expected, not until he had turned away and was walking to his pensieve.

The memory was longer than he had expected. He would have to study it in detail later, when the two children were not waiting in his office. But he got the gist of it. And he didn’t like it.

When Albus returned to his desk, Miss Granger was pointing out some theorem in Marchaud’s ‘Foundations of Magic’ to Harry. It was a fascinating work - the wizard had been ahead of his time by centuries - but Albus didn’t think Harry was in a mood to appreciate it right now. Though it, or at least the young witch’s enthusiasm, served to distract the boy at least. Fawkes was munching on some lemon drops - apparently his phoenix had used the distraction as well.

The Headmaster took his seat and sighed. “I think you already know that you saw another dark ritual by Voldemort.” Experienced, actually, as Voldemort. But there was no need to be so precise. Even Miss Granger didn’t mention that.

“Yes, sir.” Harry sounded less shaken now.

“He sacrificed a werewolf. But I couldn’t tell for what purpose.” Which was worrying in itself. To counter magic one usually had to know what one was facing.

“It seemed to empower those runes,” Harry said.

“Yes, though as far as I could tell, those were mere light runes,” Albus stated, And why would Voldemort sacrifice a werewolf just to create light? The Headmaster would have to study the runes he could see, all of them, to be certain that this was all they did. But even so, Albus knew one possible answer. The worst possible answer.

It was a test.

*****

Be careful what you wish for, Sirius thought. When he had been told that his baby cousin was getting married to Viktor Krum, he had been overjoyed - he had barely kept the urge to have Padfoot jump around the two, barking wildly, in check. And he had been pleased to hear that Viktor’s family would be involved in the war against the Dark Lord. They had already lost one of their family, and they knew what they were getting into.

But if he had known what exactly this would lead to… the tension in his home hadn’t been this bad since right before he had left it for the Potters’ back in his teenage years. Wizard wedding preparations were serious business.

“Nymphadora! How can you claim this is a compromise?” Andromeda sounded aghast.

“Mum! We’re having a Bulgarian wedding ceremony, and a British wedding!” Nymphadora was standing, facing her mother.

“A British muggle wedding!” Andromeda shouldn’t be sounding quite that dismissive, in Sirius opinion. It reminded him of his mother, and her attitude towards his friends.

“So? If it was good enough for the Potters, then it’s good enough for us!” the metamorphmagus declared, standing with her hands on her hips. As if to emphasize her point she was dressed like a muggle girl, again. That wasn’t helping with her mother’s mood, of course.

“It wasn’t good enough for the Potters, it was the only way they could have married!” Andromeda was standing now as well. For a moment, Sirius expected the air between his cousins to crackle with lightning.

“Oh really? That’s not what I heard from Sirius! They would have married in muggle Britain anyway! And that’s what we’re doing!” Nymphadora scoffed.

“Sirius! What have you been telling my daughter?” Yes, Andromeda definitely sounded like his mother right then.

Damn! Sirius wasn’t about to get dragged into this conflict. Some might doubt it, but his instinct for self-preservation was working just fine! “I’ve just told her how intent Lily was on marrying according to her family’s traditions.”

“We don’t have muggle traditions!” Andromeda turned back to glare at Nymphadora.

Her daughter wasn’t giving in though. “Well, maybe we’ll start with me then!”

“Let’s calm down!” Sirius said, wishing that it wasn’t so close after the full moon, and Remus would be around. His friend was supposed to be the diplomatic one! Not that Remus would have been present anyway - Andromeda had made it clear that this was a ‘Black affair’. Blood and spouses only. The wizard briefly wondered if his own wedding, should it ever come to that, would generate as much trouble. He hadn’t even met Valérie’s parents yet… Merlin, he was thinking about marriage! It was contagious!

The two headstrong witches didn’t look like they were about to heed his plea.

“Andromeda. Nymphadora.” At last, Ted spoke up.

“Ted!” “Dad!”

Sirius had enough. “Be quiet!” He roared, then glared at the two surprised witches. “What is this about, Andy? I don’t recall you being that fond of British weddings.”

His cousin met his eyes for a moment, then sat down, sighing. “It’s not the traditions, not exactly. It’s the whole impression it’ll leave. We’re a small family, even counting you, Sirius.”

“Thank you,” he answered, drily.

The witch ignored his remark, and addressed Nymphadora: “And you’re marrying into an entire clan. If we’re doing the ceremony the Bulgarian way as well, it’ll look like we’re the ones marrying into them without bringing much to the table.”

“You’d mean we’d look like true muggleborns?” Nymphadora asked with a sneer reminiscent of her late aunt.

“We’d look poor!” Andromeda spat.

Sirius finally understood. He stopped Nymphadora with a silent Silencing Charm before she could retort and make things worse.

“Sirius! What’s the idea?” The young witch glared at him after ending the spell.

“Andy’s concerned about the gossip this’ll generate. You weren’t born when she was emancipated, so you don’t know what she went through,” he started to explain.

“Sirius!”

He ignored Andromeda’s exclamation. It was better to scourgify the dirty laundry of a family before a wedding than afterwards. “When a child of one of the Old Families choses emancipation, people usually assume something scandalous is the reason. That was the case with Andy. Especially after I had left and gone to the Potters, but hadn’t chosen to be emancipated myself.” And hadn’t that been a scandal! Sirius was quite certain that he would have been removed from the family, if there hadn’t been a war going on and his parents had feared for the continuation of the line, and decided that having a son in each camp was a good thing.

“What? Are you telling me that if we marry according to Viktor’s tradition, they’ll assume something is wrong with my family?” Nymphadora’s tone reminded him that she was still so young. So naive in some ways, despite her brash attitude.

“That’s about it.” Sirius nodded.

Nymphadora sat down, muttering curses under her breath. The animagus knew the feeling - he often was quite fed up with Wizarding Britain’s society himself. “So, what can we do?” she finally asked, frowning.

“Oh, the usual Black solution.” Sirius answered, cheerfully.

“Which would be?” Andromeda looked at him with suspicion in her eyes.

“We’ll throw money at it!” He smiled brightly at her. The other traditional Black solution, dark curses, wasn’t really applicable here, after all. “Consider it a gift for my favorite cousin.”

“And how will that help?” Andromeda sounded sceptical still.

“We’ll come with so many friends, we’ll drown out the locals! And we’ll share the costs, so they can’t complain!” Sirius was getting into the spirit now. “And we might as well make a spectacle out of the muggle wedding!” They could do that - he had seen some very elaborate wedding pictures in those magazines.

From the way Nymphadora’s eyes lit up, she had seen the same pictures. Andromeda, bless her soul, probably didn’t realise just what was in store for her, yet.

*****

“I still can’t believe Nymphadora is getting married.”

Hermione Granger looked up from her notes and at her boyfriend. “Why?”

“She dresses so often like a punk, I keep assuming that she’d think marriage would be ‘too conventional’ for her.”

“She dresses like a punk because she likes the style. She doesn’t really think like a punk.” Hermione knew that from talking with the witch - Nymphadora had become the closest to a ‘big sister’ the muggleborn witch had. And despite her pranking streak, the Auror generally was a good source of information about some aspects of Wizarding Britain others, especially wizards and older witches, might not be too privy about.

“I’ll take your word for it.” Harry leaned back on the couch facing her.

“You’ll see it at her muggle wedding. There’ll be horse carriages, not punk bands.” And probably dresses for the bridesmaids that cost more than dress robes. At her boyfriend’s look, she added “Sirius wants an expensive wedding, and he’s not exactly looking at middle-class affairs for examples.”

“Great,” Harry muttered.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She’d have expected a bit more enthusiasm. And deep down, she couldn’t help but think of a similar wedding, in her future. And Harry’s. A celebration more expensive than any wizard one would be a way to get back at a society that prevented her from marrying who she wanted. “What’s wrong?”

Harry sighed, running his hand through his hair. “Nothing… I’m just… you know, jealous.”

Jealous? He was jealous? Of Viktor? For a moment, all her insecurities rose up inside her. She forced herself to calm down though. “What do you mean?” It came out just a tiny bit sharper than she’d wanted.

“They get to marry. In the Magical World.” He flicked his wand almost absentmindedly, conjuring a small cube of stone, and shattering it with a piercing curse before it hit the ground.

“Oh.” They hadn’t talked about that part, much. After they had finally found out the truth about the Year of Discovery, this was the biggest elephant left in the room when it came to talking about their relationship.

“I should be happy for them, and I am… but…” Harry trailed off, looking slightly ashamed.

“It emphasizes just how unfair it is?” she asked, putting her notes down.

“Yes.” He slid a bit to the side when he noticed her getting up.

Hermione sat down next to him, and leaned into his side. It was unfair. And she hated it. Hated that she couldn’t do anything about it. Anything practical, at least. She clenched her teeth together, wishing to hurt or destroy something, until Harry slid his arm around her shoulders. They remained like that for a while.

“So, how’s the work on the monstrous spider summons going?” Harry asked, blatantly changing the topic.

“Well, I’ve got the spider part down.” Now that only left he monstrous part to be added.

“I know that. Ron pretty much confirmed that.”

“I said I was sorry! He shouldn’t have barged in!” Hermione flushed slightly.

“Did you really have the room covered in spiders?” Harry sounded as if he was torn between amusement and horror.

“Just the back half of it. And only the floor,” she added indignantly.

“It’ll probably take him a few days to enter the room again.” There was the slightest hint of reproach in Harry’s voice.

She sighed. “I’m sorry, but this is important. I didn’t expect him to be present, or I’d have told him in advance. I thought he would be studying with Padma.” According to the schedule she had made for him, he should have been!

“Apparently, there’s been a bit of a row,” Harry said.

“Oh? What about?” Hermione didn’t like hearing that. Padma was good for Ron.

“Parkinson.” Harry spat the name out.

“What did that witch do this time?” Not for the first time she thought about cursing the Slytherin.

“It’s not so much what she did, but what Padma thinks Ron did, or didn’t.” Harry sighed.

Hermione waited, and when Harry didn’t continue, she prodded him: “And what was that?”

“He doesn’t know. He only knows she’s unhappy with him, and it’s because of Parkinson.”

“Do you think she planned that?” Hermione had her doubts.

“Maybe. But why go after Ron?” Harry frowned.

“She might simply be looking for a pureblood boyfriend.” Or husband, the witch added to herself. Ron was a good catch, as some pureblood witches saw it - wealthy, famous, and not in line to become head of the Weasley family.

“But why Ron? He hates Slytherins.”

Hermione shrugged. “Maybe it’s the challenge. Or she’s just dumb. Or she wants him because Malfoy hated him.”

“Or she just wants to ruin his relationship,” Harry added.

“Maybe. It’s hard to tell with a witch who was Malfoy’s girlfriend for years.” Hermione had more important things to worry about. She cared about her best friend’s happiness, but she cared a lot more about her boyfriend’s life. And creating the spell for Miss Jenny and Hagrid would help with that. It wouldn’t help with the Parkinson problem. Well, it could, but that would be going a bit too far. And illegal too. It would be satisfying, though.

Hermione spent a few moments imagining Parkinson’s reaction to the spell she was working on. It was a good motivation to continue her work.

*****

Albania hadn’t changed much, Aberforth Dumbledore thought. At least not the mountains near the border to Greece he had spent half a year in hunting down Ottoman Raiders, so long ago. And the Greek village right on the border where Lea had her shop hadn’t changed at all, as far as he could tell.

The old men sitting under the olive tree in front of their house watched him, wand ready. He was in disguise, and strangers were dangerous here. Suspicious too. Aberforth nodded at the men, carefully keeping his hands free and in their sight, and continued.

He felt the wards tingle when he entered. His old friend had kept her edge, then - or at least her caution. He was greeted by a young witch though, barely out of school, and wearing rather daring robes for the region. Maybe things had changed more than he had thought.

“Welcome to Lea’s, sir!” She sounded a bit more enthusiastic than she looked. No surprise - even with his beard cut, and a wide-brimmed hat on his head, Aberforth knew he didn’t look very trustworthy.

“Hello, dear. Is Lea around?” He saw her smile vanish, replaced by open suspicion. Things must have been bad lately, for shopkeepers to react like that. “I’m an old friend of hers.”

“What’s your name?” She didn’t look like she believed him. And after not having visited for so long, longer than she probably had been alive, Abe didn’t feel like a good friend either. But he had a mission to accomplish.

He was certain she had her wand in hand, behind the desk. He smiled at her. “Tell her we almost became family, decades ago.” He couldn’t help but feel the pain again, hardly dimmed after all those years.

That seemed to puzzle her. Before she could ask another question though, the curtain behind the witch parted and he heard a voice: “Don’t stand there like a lost muggle. Come in!”

“Grandmother!” The young witch sounded surprised.

“I know him, Abdera. Just tend to the shop.”

The girl still glared at Aberforth as he made his way around the desk, but he ignored her.

The room behind the curtain was colder, and smelled like incense. Just as he remembered. And she looked like he remembered, just older. “Hello Lea,” he said, after he had seen her throw up some privacy spells.

“Abe.” She nodded at him. His old friend was wearing traditional robes. The same she and her sisters had worn in their youth. He didn’t know if that meant she had never married. The girl out front had called her ‘grandmother’, but that didn’t have to mean they actually were related. He hoped they were though - at least one of them should have been happy in her life.

She had studied him as he had studied her, and came to a conclusion: “You’re back in the war.”

“Another war, this time.” He took a seat, his duelist robes rearranging themselves so he would not be hindered should he have to jump up at once.

“It’ll be fought the same as the others. And cause the same pain,” she said in a flat voice, her eyes daring him to object.

He had no answer to that, and so he simply nodded, conceding the point. She was correct - out here, feuds were a way of life, and wars just meant more feuding.

“Last I heard, your home is at war. Why are you here then?” Lea didn’t sound like she was accusing him of running away. He still felt a bit stung.

“A friend of mine went missing across the border.” Missing, presumed dead.

She scoffed. “That happens when you trust the dogs.”

He wasn’t about to discuss her views of the Albanians. That was Albus’s job. He was here for Bertram. And whatever scum the Dark Lord had sent. “He had no choice but to head there. He was working against a recruiter of the Dark Lord fighting my country, and they were recruiting Albanians.” Among others. But it would not serve any point mentioning that. The less he got involved in the clan feuds here the better. For a moment, he thought that that was one thing he had been spared thanks to that tragedy, and then felt guilty about it.

“And you have come to avenge him.” Again it wasn’t a question.

“To save him, or to continue his mission,” he corrected her.

She laughed, harshly now. “That’s your excuse. Just as you killed Haidee’s murderer not to avenge her, but to save me and Neola.”

He closed his eyes, wincing. He hadn’t managed to save Neola. Her youngest sister.

“I’m sorry,” Lea said. “You did your best.”

“And it wasn’t good enough.” He scoffed. He blamed Albus, for abandoning the girl. But he blamed himself for letting her get kidnapped.

“You saved me.” She frowned at him.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” Lea summoned a bottle and two glasses. Scottish Firewhiskey. At his expression, she smirked. “An acquired taste, you might say.”

Both lifted their glasses in a silent toast to the dead before drinking.

Lea set down her empty glass. “So, what do you need to know?”

“Any names and locations of those looking for hired wands. The Dark Lord doesn’t care about nationality as long as they’ll kill.” He might even hire muggleborns, should any be as stupid as to hire on.

“He’d be a fool if he hired both Greek and dogs. They’ll fight each other instead of the enemy.” Lea grinned without humour.

Albus didn’t share that view, as amusing as it was to imagine the chaos. Enough wands, both Albanians and Greeks, would not care overly much about the others, as long as the gold was good. And as long as they were away from their homes and families. “He uses his wands in small groups, isolated from each other. It would be easy enough to keep everyone separated.”

She nodded. “He’s not that much of a fool then. But he’s still a fool for trusting dogs. And for fighting you.” She smiled at that.

“Thank you.” He smiled back. He might not share her flattering view of his own power, but it was good to be appreciated. As Aberforth, instead of as ‘the other Dumbledore’ or ‘Albus’s brother’.

“I’ve heard of offers. Family talks.” She glanced at the curtain, and back to him.

So she had a family, still. He nodded, prompting her to continue.

“They talk of foreigners, and generous offers.” And she had a family involved in the mercenary ‘trade’. Anything else would have been a surprise of course, given the area’s history.

“Do they talk of the Dark Arts, and of killing children too?” He stared at her. “That is what the gold will be paying for. Dead children and demons feeding on innocents.”

She looked away first. “No, they do not talk about that.”

“Someone should.”

“Someone will.” She filled her glass again. “Will you be hiring wands as well?”

“Yes.” Albus could pay. Or he could get Black to cough up the gold. “If they’re willing to follow orders.”

“Yours? Yes, they will.”

“Mine.” After a heartbeat, he added: “And my brother’s.”

She hissed at that, in surprise or disgust. Or both. She did fill her glass again, and he followed her example. “It’s serious then.”

“Yes.”

“There are two men, traveling through the country. And through the dogs’ country. Foreigners, cruel ones. Quick with their wands, generous with gold, but cruel. They were last said to be heading to Macedonia. They call themselves ‘Smith’ or ‘Brown’ or ‘Spencer’. We simply call them ‘the British’ by now.”

“Thank you.” He grinned. He did remember Macedonia very well. It would be fitting if he caught the two there.

“Now let’s talk gold. My family doesn’t come cheap.”

Judging by her grin, she knew it wasn’t his gold he would be talking about, but his brother’s.

He didn’t mind.

*****


	36. Old and New Wounds

**Chapter 36: Old and New Wounds**

If Magical Albania hadn’t changed much, Magical Macedonia had not changed at all since his last visit, Aberforth Dumbledore thought. It was still a collection of small villages, hidden and warded in mountain valleys. Some were said to have been bastions of resistance during the Ottoman Occupation, never found or conquered while their brave wizards faced the Turks in a guerilla war before that term was coined. Aberforth, cynical as he was, thought it was more likely that the Macedonians had romanticized bandits as resistance fighters after the War of Liberation.

But whether they had fought the Turks for their country, or for their gold, it didn’t change the fact that the Macedonians were good fighters. Not the most disciplined - the times of Alexander the Great’s squadrons of wizards were long since gone - but hardened and generally experienced. Good mercenaries too. And good friends - once you earned their trust. Worse enemies though, if you ever betrayed that trust.

He was sitting on a boulder, in front of a cave, looking down into a valley. The village down there wasn’t one of the hidden ones. Muggles couldn’t see, much less enter it of course, but it wasn’t warded from other wizards. It wasn’t dominated by one clan either, but populated by a collection of various families, and even some foreigners. There Macedonians could meet other clans on somewhat neutral ground, and foreigners could meet Macedonians.

And it was where all sorts of shady deals were brokered. With the Ottomans driven out, the local wizards had turned back to their feuding - some of the blood feuds between clans dated back to the Byzantine Empire - and to their mercenary work. This was the place where mercenaries were recruited. The Death Eaters would be coming there to recruit Macedonians, just as Aberforth himself had once, decades ago.

He wondered if they remembered him. And if so, how. Ten wands had hired on with him, but only five had come back, covered with loot, glory and blood, as Sasha had put it. Sasha Nachev. Young, brash, and eager to test his mettle. He had been the leader of a small band, a mixed bunch even, not all from his own family. Aberforth remembered that meeting, right after the Intervention.

_Full of anger and determination, he had entered the tavern of the village and marched into the centre of the room, drawing the attention of everyone inside. “Greetings. My name is Aberforth Dumbledore,” he had said. “I’m looking for a few brave wands for a mission against the Turks.”_

_That had sent murmurs through the room, just as he had known it would. He hadn’t liked using his brother’s fame like this, still didn’t like it, but with Lea’s and Neola’s lives and freedom at stake, he had been willing to use any means at his disposal. Especially since Albus had refused to help him, had even tried to prohibit him from doing anything ‘to jeopardize the hard-won peace treaty’ with the Ottoman Empire. His brother had been weighing the threat of war, of hundreds, thousands dead, against the fate of two witches. And, as if he had learned nothing from Grindelwald, Albus had made his choice. And Aberforth had made his._

_Sasha had stood up then, a lad barely above 20 years old, clean-shaven still, and had walked up to him while others lowered their gazes - or were even leaving in haste; the Intervention hadn’t been exclusively aimed at Ottoman slavers, after all, and Albus’s role had been well-known. “Are you the vanquisher of Grindelwald?” Sasha had asked, eyes gleaming. He had twirled his wand between his fingers, as had been all the rage among mercenaries back then._

_And Aberforth had stared at him, shaking his head. “No, lad, I’m his younger brother.” He had barely kept his anger at Albus from erupting, but Sasha had laughed at his ire. “I’m Sasha Nachev - also a younger brother,” the Macedonian had said and slapped him on the shoulder. “Come, sit down, and let’s talk - about elder siblings and this mission of yours!”_

_Aberforth had laughed, despite himself, and shared a drink, or three. And discovered mastika, the Macedonian national drink, as Sasha had put it. He still stocked that liquor at the Hog’s Head Inn to this day. He had explained his predicament, ranted against the injustice of all, and Sasha had listened._

_“Saving two maidens - even if they are Greeks, and not proper Macedonians - and avenging a third? That’s a mission straight from a tale or song! Breaking into an Ottoman’s harem? That’s the making of a legend! Of course we’ll help you!”_

_Aberforth had smiled, but before he had been able to thank the young wizard, Sasha had added: “But since you’re getting the women, we’ll get all the loot!”_

_That had been Sasha: young, fearless, and with a flair few could match._

Aberforth wondered what Sasha would be doing now. Would he have become a respected patriarch of his own family? Or a wizard mothers warned their sons not to emulate? Probably both. He was famous though, at least in his village. Aberforth had seen to that. Had told his friend’s family about Sasha’s last stand.

Sometimes he wondered if Albus would have reacted like Sasha’s brothers had, had their fates been reversed. Would his brother have mourned him, or himself for losing his last sibling? He didn’t know, and doubted he would ever know.

He pulled out a flask from his enchanted pocket, mastika, and raised it to the setting sun. “To gold and witches!” he repeated Sasha’s favorite toast, then poured some on the earth, before taking a sip himself.

“That’s an unexpected toast, from the man who saved my grandmother.”

He was glad he was facing away from the cave that the girl, the woman, had just exited, so she couldn’t see his expression. Iva, Abdera’s older sister, sounded so much like her grand-aunt Haidee, it brought up painful memories whenever she surprised him. Fortunately, the twenty years old witch didn’t look quite like Haidee. She was taller, and more slender. She wore the same robes though.

When he turned around, his face showed the indulgent smile of a grandfather. Or granduncle. “I was just thinking of an old friend, it was his favorite toast.”

“Sasha?”

He shouldn’t be surprised. Of course, Lea would have told her family all about the botched rescue that left her second sister and half the wands who came to rescue them dead. He nodded.

“I would have liked to know him. Even if he was a Macedonian.” She grinned, then stared down at the village. “I don’t like your plan.”

“I know.”

“You’re taking too many risks yourself. You hired us, you should let us take the risks.” For a slip of a girl, she was sounding like an experienced mercenary. Then again, no experienced mercenary would volunteer like that.

“With me not used to fighting at your side, we’d endanger each other while disillusioned.” More so than usual, even - there was a reason most veterans scoffed when a young wizard or witch mentioned fighting while disillusioned; any group not trained extremely well would quickly lose cohesion in that sort of fight. “I’ll do much better by myself, with the others having to worry about hitting each other by mistake.” And he didn’t want Lea’s family to risk their lives like that. If he had known just how young they were, he’d never had made the offer. Which Lea had known, of course.

Iva sat down on the boulder closest to him, a flick of her wand cutting and summoning a grass stalk to her lips she then started to chew on. “As soon as the concealing spells drop we’ll move in though.” Glancing at him with a challenge in her eyes, she added: “You’ll certainly be able to tell us from our enemies then.”

“Aye.” But the villagers would only see another bunch of foreigners. He could just hope that he had arrived in time, and the Death Eaters hadn’t managed to hire any Macedonians yet. Getting mistaken for raiders attacking the village would be messy. Very messy.

Iva blinked, then nodded, “Good. She probably had expected him to try and argue. But while she didn’t look like Haidee, the few days spent in the company of her and the other mercenaries from her family had shown Aberforth that she had the same unbending spirit. The spirit that had made Haidee resist to the end, pushing the slavers into killing rather than capturing her. He’d not let that happen to Iva, the old wizard vowed.

“I’ll tell the others,” Iva continued. But she didn’t get up, instead remaining seated, watching the sunset with him. “Why didn’t you visit before?” Her tone was both curious and slightly accusing.

He sighed. Lea hadn’t asked that. She had known. “I was ashamed.”

“Why?” Iva sounded honestly puzzled. “You saved my grandmother.”

“And I didn’t save your grandaunt. Grandaunts.”

Iva shrugged. “Haidee died defending her home and family. You weren’t even there.”

“I should have been. And Neola was killed in my attempt to save her and Lea.” Which wouldn’t have happened if Albus had helped. The wizard who had defeated Grindelwald would have sent the guards of the entire city fleeing by his mere presence.

“Two were lost, but you brought one back.” Iva shrugged.

She never had known her grandaunts. And she hadn’t vowed to save them both. He wasn’t in the mood to argue about it though, and so he nodded, seemingly conceding her point. The girl smiled, clapped him on the shoulder - this time evoking memories of Sasha; Haidee had never acted like that - and stood up. “Good. I’ll tell the others to get ready.”

He nodded and stood up himself. The sun had set. It was time.

Aberforth disillusioned himself and apparated to the outskirts of the village. With the light fading, he needed to be closer to spot any intruders. That he would be further apart from the girl that brought up so many painful memories by her mere presence was just a side-benefit.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore watched as the last of a dozen disillusioned wizards settled in what appeared to be a decent guard spot. He had expected more from a Death Eater who had killed Bertram than disillusioning a dozen wands and spreading them around the village, half of them facing the tavern. Of course, he couldn’t be certain that those were all the wands at his enemies’ disposal. On the other hand, it would have been sufficient to deal with most wizards. While Aberforth wasn’t on his brother’s level, he was quite experienced at silent casting, and at detecting hidden enemies by means other than the standard Human-presence-revealing Spell. Having a way to spot disillusioned enemies without warning them of that fact had served him well in turning the tables on ambushers in the past.

He briefly pondered waiting a bit longer, looking a bit harder for another trap, then decided against it. He couldn’t risk letting the Death Eaters finish their recruiting. And he wouldn’t let Bertram’s murderers get away.

Disillusioned himself, he slowly snuck up on the outermost guard, his enchanted glasses showing the man’s position and silhouette thanks to Bat’s Eyes. His target was leaning against a low wall surrounding a garden, staring at the road that led to the next village - if he wasn’t slacking off, of course. His spell wasn’t that good for details. It usually didn’t need to be.

When he was close enough, he struck and quickly cast several spells. A silencing spell prevented the man from alerting his comrades and hampered his own casting. Not that he had much of a chance to try, since several Bludgeoning Curses hammered him around, smashing him against the wall hard enough to break bones while a Disarming Spell relieved him of his wand. It was over in a few seconds.

Protected by the wall from witnesses, Aberforth finited the disillusion spell on the man and looked him over. Albanian robes. No Macedonian would be caught wearing those. It had to be one of the Death Eaters’ latest recruits. That made dealing with the rest of them easier. As for this one… for a second Aberforth hesitated. The man was unconscious, beaten, and no threat anymore. Then his his face hardened. He had hired on with the Dark Lord, and everyone knew what that kind of work entailed. Murder, and worse.

And if he left him there... the Macedonians didn’t share the same hatred for the Albanians as Lea’s people, but one of them, caught sneaking into the village? He’d be seen, probably rightfully so, as a raider looking for a victim, and he’d not die easily, or quickly.

“Diffindo,” he whispered, and cut the man’s throat, then vanished the corpse and the blood-soaked earth around it. No one seemed to have noticed the disappearance of the guard yet - a common problem with disillusioned forces, even those using some means to detect each other - and the old wizard grinned ferally as he took a look at his next target.

*****

Rodolphus Lestrange sneered under his mask as he entered the hovel that passed for the tavern in this dirty village. He couldn’t understand why the locals didn’t have more impressive homes. Their expansion charms were first rate, as the tavern’s main room attested to, and the furniture showed they were not poor either, so why were they still hiding behind the facades of poor muggle houses? It wasn’t as if muggles could even see the village! If he didn’t know better, he would suspect that this was the work of mudbloods. But the Dark Lord would never hire mudbloods, so that couldn’t be the case.

As always, the sacred robe and mask he wore made an impression. Everyone inside stared at him, some jumped up from their tables, a few even cast Shield Charms and other protective spells. He smiled. Rabastan had wanted to send in another imperiused local, but he had put his foot down. They couldn’t afford to sacrifice the best and maybe only recruiting location in Macedonia for another trap just because his younger brother was paranoid. Not to mention that they had killed their pursuer, and that an imperiused tool wouldn’t be able to hire anyone but fools. Their Lord needed more wands - skilled ones - not fools.

But to indulge his brother he had left him and those Albanians and Greeks they had already hired outside, to watch his back. Rodolphus could handle a bunch of foreign mercenaries by himself. Not that any of them looked like they would be making trouble. Most were avoiding his gaze, not that they could see his face at all.

Another advantage of wearing the sacred robes was that everyone knew they were signing on with the Dark Lord. Weaklings who had no stomach for what fighting in a war took would know not to apply. And despite the Macedonians’ reputation as fierce fighters, there were too many in this tavern who frowned or even glared at him.

On the other hand, a promising number smiled. Rodolphus slowly turned, addressing the entire room “Macedonians! I represent the greatest Dark Lord Britain, the World, has seen in centuries! He has conquered death himself, no mortal can stand against him! He offers those worthy among you the chance to fight at his side, for riches and glory!”

An older wizard wearing the traditional robes of the locals stood up. “How much gold is your Lord offering for our wands?” he asked with a lopsided grin - a dark curse scar covered half his face.

Before Rodolphus could answer, he heard screams followed by explosions from outside the tavern. His brother! He started for the door, but was caught up in a veritable surge of people as half the tavern rushed forward as well.

*****

Aberforth stepped to the side, letting a Killing Curse pass him by so closely, his vision turned green for an instant. He had managed to kill four of the dozen mercenaries before they had noticed his actions, but to their leader’s credit, they had quickly started casting Anti-Disillusionment Jinxes all over the village, forcing him to fight them openly.

He was fine with that. The wizard who had missed him - another Albanian, judging by his robe - dodged behind a wall. Aberforth’s Blasting Curse blew both wall and wizard to bits. Messy, but effective. He was already moving again, weaving through the garden of the next house. A broom rider rose behind the village’s temple, scouting, or preparing to attack from the air. It didn’t matter as the old wizard interfered with the man’s control of his broom just enough to hit the bucking broom and its struggling rider with a fire spell. Both were set ablaze and crashed on the cobblestone square in the centre of the village.

Aberforth was almost out of the garden when it and the house it belonged to started to explode around him. His Shield Charm protected him from the debris though, and the dust thrown up covered his escape. He spotted the caster, perched on the temple roof, and transfigured the shingles into almost frictionless ice. According to the high-pitched screams that followed, cut short by a crunching impact on the stone floor below, that caster had been either a witch, or a boy. Aberforth didn’t care either way - anyone who signed up to fight for Voldemort was old enough to be killed.

He reached the back wall, transfiguring a hole into it that he could run through - he was too old to vault over it, as he’d have done decades ago. Just as he was about to double back to hit the enemies who’d be pursuing him now from their rear, he heard screams from the crumbling house. For a moment he was tempted to ignore them. There were still seven Death Eaters or their lackeys around. Then he snarled. That was what Albus would do. He wasn’t his brother!

Aberforth went back, a wave of his wand parting the wall again but this time turning it into a shield against pursuit from his right side. The front and right side of the house had been blasted apart, and he could see a girl half-buried under the rubble, screaming with pain and fear. Above her, the first floor was threatening to cave in and crush her, or bury her alive.

Like Haidee had died.

His first spell turned the crumbling first floor into a solid arch, and his next turned the rubble and debris pinning the girl down into water, leaving her soaked, but free. And bleeding freely. Cursing his haste he rushed forward. If he could stop the bleeding…

A series of curses hit his Shield Charm, shattering it, and overwhelmed his robe’s defenses. A spell clipped his shoulder, and pain surged through him as his blood started to boil. He dropped to the floor, casting a counter-curse while more spells sailed over his head, striking the back wall in a cacophony of wild colors and shaking the remains of the house. Dust and pebbles fell down from the remains of the first floor.

He cursed his foolishness as he banished a mound of debris at his attackers, then turned it into pure alcohol before it reached them. A Fire-Making Charm set it ablaze. Piercing screams told him he got at least two wizards as well, but more importantly, he bought enough time to escape with the wounded girl.

With his shoulder still hurting as if it had been burned from the inside, he crawled towards the witch, wand ready to cast. But when he reached her, he saw she had already succumbed to her wounds. A small part of him knew he wouldn’t have been able to save her anyway. Not with his limited knowledge of healing spells. The rest of him felt guilt, and anger. Rage. New and old.

He recast his Shield Charm and stood up. A Blasting Curse opened a hole in the front wall, sending shards of stone and wood at his enemies. He strode through, already casting - his glasses, stuck to his nose, showed him where his enemies were while the dust cloud thrown up by his spell hid him. Then he was out in the open.

Curses he had last used in the Intervention struck a figure wearing Death Eater garb. His opponent was good, Aberforth admitted, his protections turning away spells that would have killed lesser wizards. But he was not good enough. While the man was reeling from the battering his shield and robe were taking, Aberforth turned the stone and earth beneath the dark wizard into acid.

The man dropped to his waist into the newly-created hole, then started screaming when the acid ate away at his robes and skin and private parts. The old wizard was about to put the scum out of his misery when he heard someone scream to his left.

“Rabastan!”

A barrage of dark curses flew towards Aberforth as another masked Death Eater appeared. That had to be the one who had entered the tavern before the fight started. And if the first Death Eater was Rabastan Lestrange, then this would be his brother Rodolphus. Two marked members of the Dark Lord’s inner circle. No wonder Bertram had been killed! And now they were out for his blood!

He dove forward, into a roll, but his body was just too old, and too wounded, and he hit the cobblestones hard, sliding rather than rolling over them. He felt ribs breaking and his knee sent shards of pain up his leg. He had dodged the spells though, and he hadn’t lost his wand. He quickly raised part of the ground as a stone wall to shield him. As curses hit the wall, shaking and shattering it, he recast his Shield Charm and created a slab of marble as another barrier - and not a moment too soon. More curses shattered it almost as quickly as the first stone wall, but he had gained enough time to react now. He banished the remains at the attacker, peppering his shield, then aimed his wand at the still screaming Death Eater who was trying to crawl out of the acid pit. A flick, and the screaming man flew at the standing Death Eater.

*****

Rodolphus was incensed. That scum had dared to hurt his brother! He would pay for this unforgivable crime with his life! The dark wizard was sending spell after spell at the man, crushing the feeble walls his foe had conjured to hide himself. Rodolphus’s enemy would not escape! He was wounded, and slow, and Rodolphus was one of the Dark Lord’s chosen! His spells couldn’t be stopped!

A wave of rock shards flew at him, but his shield stopped them, easily. He was about to strike down the wizard who was trying to reach more solid cover when he noticed something large flying at him from the corner of his eye. Rodolphus dove to the side and cast a Blasting Curse at it before he touched the ground. His shield would be able to handle another hail of fragments much better than a massive… He recognized his brother’s screaming face just before his spell hit and Rabastan was torn to pieces right in front of Rodolphus, blood and other remains splattering against his shield.

Rabastan… his younger brother… dead. By his own wand… no, by treachery! Foul treachery!

Screaming in rage, Rodolphus turned around to end the life of the man who had sent his brother to his death, the tip of his wand already glowing with a dark curse.

The last thing he saw were a dozen wizards and witches sending curses at him.

*****

Aberforth lowered his wand, gulping down air despite the pain each breath caused him. That had been close, though partially it had been his own foolishness, and rash actions that had endangered him so. But he was no Albus. He couldn’t suppress his emotions, couldn’t act that coldly, that calculatingly.

“Grandmother will be pleased to know you haven’t changed, and still would risk your life to save a witch,” Iva said, stepping closer and peering at him while the rest of her group formed a circle around them, facing the villagers and mercenaries who had arrived, at last, at the scene of battle.

“She’d still call me a damned fool,” Aberforth muttered, “and she’d be right.” A swish numbed his ribs enough for him to stand without too much pain. Showing a weakness would be bad now, with his group facing a village of Macedonians while standing amidst the ruins of their houses, and with at least one of the villagers dead.

“A fool you may be, but an impressive wizard,” the witch whispered, smiling and patting his shoulder - his wounded one! He couldn’t tell from her expression if she had done so deliberately. Lea would have.

Scoffing, he straightened and took a careful step forward, taking care not to hurt his wounded knee further, and left the circle formed by Iva’s group. The villagers were watching them, him, wands out, ready to curse. One wrong step, and there would be a bloodbath. He had been in worse situations. Smiling, he repaired his damaged robe - the enchantments were already recovering - and addressed the wizards and witches: “Greetings. My name is Aberforth Dumbledore. I’m looking for a few brave wands to battle scum like those.”

That sent a murmur through their ranks, as he had known it would. His brother was famous, after all, even in the far-away corners of Magical Europe. He pointed at the wrecked house behind him. “I am sorry, but I couldn’t save the young witch that scum had wounded. She was dead before I reached her.” An older woman gasped, and started to run towards the ruins, followed by a younger witch and wizard. He heard them wailing soon after they had entered the remains of the house. The rest of the crowd facing him and Iva’s group didn’t seem too concerned though - they were probably visiting, and not villagers, he realised.

An old witch stepped forward. “Aberforth Dumbledore? Sasha’s friend?”

A relative of Sasha? He nodded and pointed at Iva. “That’s the granddaughter of the witch Sasha and I saved. She and her family have joined me already.”

More murmurs broke out. Iva shifted her weight around a bit as many took a closer look at her.

A middle-aged wizard with a badly scarred face chuckled. “There were more than half a dozen of them, and you beat them all.”

“More than a dozen, disillusioned,” Aberforth corrected him. The wizard nodded.

The old woman spoke again. “I’m Ruza Nacheva, Sasha’s sister. Why did you attack them in our village?”

“They have killed a friend of mine, burning down a tavern full of people in the process, and were planning to kill more of my family. I saw they were preparing an ambush in the village, so I intervened.” It was close enough to the truth.

Ruza nodded, accepting his explanation. “They were hiring, but they are dead now. You’re hiring, and you’re alive.”

“Yes. Though while the pay is good, the mission will be dangerous. You will be facing the Dark Lord’s worst, you will be working in a country that doesn’t share your traditions and customs, and you’ll be taking orders from my brother, Albus.”

“Will we be saving fair maidens?” A young wizard asked, grinning wildly. The young witch next to him added: “Or handsome wizards?” Many in the crowd laughed.

“Who cares about that, will there be loot?” The scarred wizard asked, setting off another round of laughter.

Aberforth tried to ignore the wailing and lamentations from the dead girl’s family. No, this village hadn’t changed at all. Like Sasha, they were both used to violence and death, eager to fight and even more eager to celebrate. He wondered how his brother, who had troubles with the rougher clientele in Aberforth’s inn, would handle those people.

Imagining Albus’s reaction made him chuckle as they walked towards the tavern.

*****

Albus Dumbledore had no trouble smiling reassuringly and confidently at his friends gathered in the cottage on the coast of Dover. This time he had good news to share with the Order of the Phoenix - very good news, in fact.

“My friends, please excuse my slightly late arrival. I have just received very good news.” At that, even Sirius sat up straighter and paid more attention to him than to the Veela Albus was rather certain would become his wife. Even Nymphadora and Viktor were less obviously enamored of each other. “Not only have the Dark Lord’s recruiting attempts in the Balkans been stopped, but we have gained more wands for our cause.”

“Allies?” Emmeline asked, surprised.

Alastor scoffed. “Mercenaries more likely. Cutthroats, the lot of them, but good fighters. They’ve got far more experience than our own Hit-Wizards recruits because they don’t coddle their children. As long as they’re paid they’ll usually not turn on you, unless the situation turns desperate. But don’t count on it. Keep them between you and the enemy, and never let them out of your sight lest they’ll be tempted to listen to better offers.”

Sirius grinned. “I’ll be glad to put Lucius’s gold to good use then.”

“Alastor is exaggerating a bit, but yes, several mercenaries have been hired. I bid you to welcome them warmly, and be tolerant if at first they have trouble fitting in. As Alastor pointed out, they have different customs and traditions.” Albus hoped that his brother had hired the more dependable, honourable ones, and not bandits in all but name. Aberforth had an unfortunate tendency to associate with the more unsavory elements of Britain, which colored his views, sadly.

“And they’ve got different experiences. They’ve got a lot of pride, and their wands sit loose in their holsters. They take insults deadly seriously, and start blood feuds over what we’d call small disagreements,” Alastor said in his usual gravelly voice, his good eye looking at Molly Weasley while his enchanted one spun around.

Viktor nodded. “He is correct. They may not have attended a prestigious school like we have, but they have grown up and live with regular raids and feuds. That experience cannot be discounted, as some of our border guards tend to find out.” Nymphadora patted his hand.

Kingsley, ever the Auror, asked: “You said the Dark Lord’s recruiters have been stopped. Permanently?”

Albus nodded. “Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange as well as a dozen wands they had hired were killed in Macedonia.”

“Those beasts are dead?” Sirius grinned ferally. ”Augusta and Neville will be overjoyed!”

Hestia nodded. “Whoever killed those two is certainly a welcome addition to our ranks.” Her slight glance at the four Veela sitting with Sirius and Remus showed, at least to Albus, that she wasn’t quite as welcoming towards those new members. The Headmaster hoped she’d get over her jealousy soon - it wasn’t as if she had been serious about Sirius. She wouldn’t have believed him guilty otherwise.

While the others voiced their agreement, and whispered among each other, Alastor chuckled. He probably knew who had done that deed, and that Aberforth would scoff at the thought that he would ever join the ranks of what he saw as Albus’s order.

Minerva coughed, and most of the people present quickly fell silent. Not unlike her students in class, Albus thought, amused. “With his recruiting efforts in the Balkans stopped, for now, won’t the Dark Lord look towards other sources of new followers?

“Dark creatures like werewolves, vampires, trolls and even giants!” Emmeline stated. Albus saw Remus wince.

Alastor snorted. “Werewolves and vampires we can handle. And giants? They’re no problem. They’re too afraid to leave their last hideouts, and with good cause.”

Most of those present looked puzzled. Understandable, since they only knew the old reports of battles against giants. The grizzled Auror chuckled.

Rubeus nodded in agreement. “Yah. Giants been scared’f muggle cannons fer centuries, and tha muggles improved them alot since. Giants’re tough, but not that tough, and they make f’r awfully big targets, me’mum always said.”

“If we could get those cannons...” Sirius whispered.

“It would not do us any good,” Albus shook his head at the wizard. “While they are very useful to hit and kill large, lumbering giants, they would have a much harder time hitting humans.” He didn’t mention that learning how to use them without killing yourself or your allies by mistake was difficult as well - Sirius and even Remus might take it as a challenge. “The muggles use them to hit vehicles, not other muggles. And outside of dealing with giants and their resistance to magic, they are not as useful as a wand.” Not to mention that the ICW’s reaction upon discovering that anyone had started to use muggle artillery in a wizarding war would be rather drastic. “But enough of that. We will need safe quarters for our new allies, and a lot of them. I have a few more such cottages prepared, but depending on how many join us from the Balkans, it won’t be enough.”

“I’ll host Viktor’s family in my home then, they’ll be family soon enough!” Sirius announced cheerfully, as Albus had expected him to.

“I can expand a house or two easily. Did it enough at home,” Arthur offered. William added: “And I can ward them.”

Albus had hoped for such an offer as well. The Weasleys were used to doing much of what other, richer families contracted out. With Aberforth’s generous hiring practises, such self-reliancy would prove quite fortunate for Albus’s finances.

The Headmaster smiled at his friends. “Very well. Now, what other news is there?”

While Kingsley and Nymphadora shared the latest reports from the Ministry, Albus was already planning how best to use his new wands. Integrating those mercenaries would require a delicate touch. Maybe he should leave them to his brother…

*****

“I offer you the hospitality of my home.”

Sirius Black greeted Viktor’s family - his parents, Mihail Bogomiliev and Lyubuv Radomirieva, as well as his older brother Apostol Mihailiev and his best friend and best man, Boris Stankoiev - who had just arrived through the Floo Network.

Mihail bowed back and declared: “I accept your hospitality for myself and my family.”

Grinning, Sirius took a step closer and offered his hand. “Welcome to No 12, Grimmauld Place! Ancestral home of the Black Family, and once the most cursed building in London! Don’t worry though, it’s almost perfectly safe now.” Behind him, Valérie and Eugénie giggled.

His well-practised line didn’t seem to faze the family. A quick glance at the carefully bland expression of Viktor showed the reason for that. Oh, yes, the young man would fit in just fine. His often stoic expression hid the sense of humour anyone marrying into Sirius’s family would need.

“And we’re glad to be here!” Mihail stated, and embraced Sirius. “To prepare for war, and a wedding!” In a stage-whisper, the wizard added: “Both are very similar when it comes to my family, you know!”, then laughed while his wife scolded him.

Sirius was released, and resisted the urge to check his ribs before he introduced his girlfriends to his new guests. To his slight surprise, the four Veela were greeted very politely, but a bit distantly. Probably Viktor at work again. Hopefully, that lack of the usual reaction to them wouldn’t be seen as a challenge by his girlfriends to step up the flirting. While the French witches understood cultural differences, they didn’t always act with those in mind.

“Now, let me give you a brief tour of the house, and show you your rooms.” They had added another floor for the new guests - apart from those present, a number of Viktor’s extended family would be arriving later, and Sirius thought it would be best to not mix them with his other guests, not too much at least, until they had grown used to each other. Remus had approved of that.

Thinking of his best friend made Sirius felt both guilty and relieved that Remus had chosen to stay at Hogwarts for the duration of the visit of the Krums. Revealing the man’s curse to the guests would have created problems, but not revealing them would have gone against the hospitality Sirius had offered. Cursed if you did, cursed if you didn’t.

Kreacher arrived at the top of the stairs, showing his teeth in what went for a friendly smile for the old elf. The little bugger was happy, of course - all of the Krums were purebloods. The wizard pointed at the elf. “That’s Kreacher, my family’s house elf. If you need anything, call for him, and he’ll come. Eventually.”

Kreacher nodded eagerly.

Sirius felt the need to add: “He’s also quite deranged. Please ignore him should he start rambling about slaves and dungeons.”

Judging by the looks his comment caused, Viktor hadn’t been that thorough in preparing his family for their stay at Grimmauld Place.

“Oh, no, Kreacher wouldn’t do that. Master made it clear that the Dungeons are a private family matter.”

While the Krums now openly stared at him and his girlfriends, Sirius wondered if Hermione would believe it if he vanished the cackling elf’s tongue and claimed it was an accident in the kitchen.

*****

The room was covered with two dozen foot-wide spiders skittering around, sharp claws leaving small dents in the floor and sharper fangs clicking as they tried to reach the piece of meat dangling from the ceiling. Even after five minutes, they hadn’t met with any success.

Hermione, observing from the side, shook her head. The summoned spiders were not smart enough to climb up the walls and along the ceiling to descend from above. They weren’t even smart enough to climb over each other so some could reach it. She pointed her wand at them.

“Clades Araneae!”

Her spell covered the area in a flash of light, and the two dozen spiders - the result of two spells - started to twitch, trembled, then collapsed and lay still.

Hermione sighed. “I fear that’s the best I could do. I can’t get them smart enough to find a way around that obstacle, or to work together.”

“I didn’t expect them to. Neither of the parent species are social, or smart,” Miss Jenny said while prodding the closest carcass with her basilisk hide boots. When she saw fluids leak out of the carapace, she nodded, apparently satisfied. “I also didn’t expect you to create two spells though.”

Hermione smiled. “I didn’t want to create a poison without the antidote.” Well, she did, sort of - she hadn’t created an antidote to the spider’s venom. There were potions, and bezoars, but those didn’t work that well with poison meant to liquify a victim from the inside.

“So… ‘Bane Spider’ and ‘Spider’s Bane’?” The Australian Witch was grinning.

“Yes.” Hermione hadn’t chosen those names herself. Ron and Harry had insisted that “Redback-Funnel-Web-Hybrid-Spider Summons” was not a good name for her new spell, no matter how correct it was, and had made her pick one from a list of suggestions they had come up with.

“I like it. And ‘Spider’s Bane’ will be very popular in my home country.”

“It’s also very popular at Hogwarts,” Hermione said in a dry voice. At least among those in the know. Ron had jumped at the chance to test that new spell, and according to Harry, was still casting it several times a day in their dorm room. As a consequence, all sorts of spiders were now an endangered species near the Gryffindor dorms.

“Does it work on magical spiders too? That would have been very useful when the acromantula nest in the Forbidden Forest was cleared out. They burned down a whole section to get all the eggs and young, or so Gilderoy told me.”

“I haven’t been able to test that, but it should work, though it will have trouble affecting the bigger ones.” Hermione frowned. While acromantulas were dangerous and known man-eaters, they were also intelligent, the older ones even able to talk. Killing them all like that... She felt like a hypocrite, developing such a spell after her reaction to that massacre. But as that event had proven, there were already a lot of spells to kill those spiders, hers worked just a bit more selectively.

“Even better! If you can tweak the spell to include all venomous arthropods, you’ll never have to pay for a drink in any pub in Magical Australia, ever again!” It went without saying that only the enclaves founded by British wizards were covered by that. The Aborigines ruling most of the continent though...

“Aren’t there spells to deal with pests and such already?” Hermione couldn’t imagine any magical country in an area with venomous spiders and other insects not developing spells of that nature.

“Yeah but most are ward-types which force the critters out of an area. Yours kills them. That’ll be a hit.” Jenny’s grin seemed slightly deranged to Hermione.

“I think spreading ‘Spider’s Bane’ should be delayed until the war’s over. If Death Eaters learn it, or of it, ‘Bane Spider’ won’t be too useful,” Hermione pointed out.

“Ah, right. I guess I’ll have to wait until I can get my boots enchanted with that spell.”

Hermione was briefly confused about the purpose of such an enchantment, until she remembered that some animals tended to sneak into boots left on the ground during the night, leading to venomous stings or bites in the morning. Though a ward would work perfectly fine there. “I’ll see what I can do about tweaking the spell, but with my O.W.L.s ahead, I won’t have much time until the end of term.” And she had her other research to do as well. Harry needed her.

“That’s no problem. The war won’t be over that quickly anyway. Thank you again! I’ll teach it to Rubeus, and the others.” Jenny grinned, and turned to leave.

“Good evening, Miss Jenny.” Hermione thought that the war not ending quickly actually was a big, the biggest problem, but commenting on that point would have made her look pedantic.

*****

“And one bludger goes straight for Bell, who’s carrying the quaffle, but there’s Fred - or George - Weasley, intercepting it and sending it back to the Slytherins. Ow! That one came from Goyle’s blind side, and hit him right when he was batting at the other bludger, which caused him to miss! Double hit, and and he’s off the broom! Flint is calling for a time-out as Matron Pomfrey rushes on the pitch to render first aid.”

Harry Potter knew he was supposed to stop playing, in his case searching for the snitch, during the time-out, but no seeker would ever do that. So all he did was stop his broom while his eyes kept looking for the golden ball. Malfoy’s successor as Slytherin’s seeker, Martello Preston-Davis, did the same. If the snitch appeared now, that would lead to probably embarrassing scenes as both of them would try to get closer without looking as if they had actually spotted the snitch.

Harry grinned, then schooled his features again, and slowly, very slowly started to drift to his right. He carefully didn’t look in that direction at all, but kept his eyes on the Slytherin seeker. Preston-Davis noticed, of course, and snarling, started to fly towards Harry’s right. Too fast to count as a drift. And as Harry had expected, Hooch didn’t miss that.

“Preston tries to hunt the snitch during the time-out, earning a penalty shot! As Goyle has returned to the pitch, Bell lines up, aims, and she scores! 140-50, Gryffindor!”

Snickering, Harry sped up. For the House of the Cunning, their Quidditch players were a rather gullible lot, at least most of them. He dove down towards the ground - not a Wronksi feint, even if Hermione would disagree, since he pulled up far too early - and did a lap on the level of the lowest rank of the spectators. He thought he had spotted something golden below the Hufflepuff stands. If it had been the snitch, then it had disappeared again though. Harry didn’t really mind. He loved flying and this was the last Quidditch match of the year, the last chance to compete - at least according to the study schedule Hermione had made for him.

“Has Potter seen the snitch? Why else would he fly straight at the stands? And Weasley blocks another shot from Meadhill!”

Why would he? Because it was fun! He ducked under the stands, weaving through the support beams, then shot back to the pitch, almost colliding with a Slytherin chaser, who promptly fumbled the quaffle. Rolling his boom, Harry rose in a steep climb before leveling out 100 yards above the pitch. Preston was following him, though a bit more cautious. Too cautious, Harry thought, to have a chance to catch up with him. Meanwhile, Harry’s team had scored again. 150-50.

For a few minutes, the Gryffindor seeker flew a ‘standard search pattern’, as Hermione had called it. He trusted his intuition and luck more, but his girlfriend had spent some of her precious time on researching such patterns from airplane searches, and so the young wizard felt obligated to at least use them a few times during a match. The witch usually didn’t care at all about the game, after all.

Just as he was about to switch for a random pattern, he spotted a glint near the ground. A golden glint!

Harry banked and dropped into a dive straight down, rapidly picking up speed. The sound from the air rushing past his ears started to drown out the announcer. Harry didn’t notice. He was focused on the snitch, and on the dive. Halfway there. He was still accelerating. Almost… now!

He started to pull up with both hands, straining to fight the broom’s momentum. As soon as he wasn’t headed straight down anymore, he reached out with his hand towards the snitch. At the last second, the ball took an extreme turn and Harry missed his grab, the tips of his fingers brushing against one of the fluttering wings.

Cursing, he pulled with both hands to turn around, Preston was right behind him, and might… he managed to duck just in time to avoid Preston’s screaming body. At that height, and with that vector… Harry winced when Preston hit the cushioning charms covering the ground. Even with the charms, that hurt, as he knew from personal experience.

He had now finished pulling his own broom around and was chasing again after the snitch, which was trying to escape towards the Gryffindor stands. Snarling, Harry raced after it, once more reaching out with one hand. The thing was faster than he had expected, flying straight, not darting around as usual. It didn’t matter much though. The wizard bent down, reducing drag to speed up a tiny bit more. Almost… almost… his hand closed around the snitch, then he pulled his broom up while he slowed down as much as possible.

He cleared the spells protecting the Gryffindor stands from crashing brooms and bludgers by a hand’s width while the students below were jumping and cheering. Ron in his keeper armor was already racing after him on his own broom, a wide grin on his face, followed by the rest of the team.

After a group hug in the air, with lots of shoulder-clapping and cheering, the team flew the traditional victory lap, cheered by three-quarters - more or less - of the spectators. Among them a wildly waving and smiling Hermione.

*****

“I’ve received confirmation of the deaths of Rodolphus and Rabastan.” The Dark Lord Voldemort said. He had felt them die, of course, but it wouldn’t do to spread what the Dark Mark really did. Not even to his Bella. Let her believe he needed a spell to confirm it.

Bellatrix Lestrange pursed her lips. “That will set your recruitment plans back, my lord.” Otherwise, the witch didn’t react much to the news of the death of her husband and brother in law. Voldemort hadn’t expected her to. Their marriage had been an arrangement all involved had known was a mere fiction, a concession for her family. Neither love nor passion had been part of it, and despite both Rodolphus and Bella being among his most faithful, he hadn’t seen any sign of friendship developing either. Even before Azkaban. Afterwards… they had tolerated each other, which had been the best he could have hoped for.

“That is correct. Other agents are still at work in Europe, but the Balkans are the best source for wands.” Redirecting one to the area was possible, but his enemies would expect that. His wand would have to act with a good cover, and setting that up would take some time. Dumbledore had won that round.

He briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm down. Ranting or destroying something wouldn’t do him any good. The ritual he was creating showed promise, great promise, but it couldn’t be rushed, not without taking unacceptable risks. He still needed a diversion, and he would need more wands even once the ritual succeeded, to take over and run the country.

He would have to resort to creatures then. Vampires and werewolves. They would make useful curse fodder, given their grievances with Britain’s society, and while they didn’t fight for free, a promise - empty, of course - of a higher status in a country ruled by the Dark Lord would be sufficient to make them loyal. He’d have to be a bit more discreet when sacrificing werewolves, of course, but since that would only happen on a full moon, when they were reduced to mindless beasts, it shouldn’t be too difficult to hide the truth about his work from the cursed beasts until it was too late.

He felt Bellatrix’s arms around him and caressed her hair before returning the embrace. It was tempting to console himself in her arms. But it wouldn’t solve his problems. He needed wizards, not beasts.

He took a deep breath again. He’d have to activate some of his secret followers. And check if Igor was still resisting him, or if the traitor had finally succumbed to his influence. Durmstrang would make for a good recruiting ground if its Headmaster was once again one of his. He might even let the traitor live, should he provide enough wands for the Dark Lord.

He ran his hands over Bellatrix’s bare back, then kissed her. While he led her to his bed, his eyes briefly glanced at the note on his desk, the report from his spy at the Ministry. Yes, Dumbledore had won one round, but Voldemort was about to win a decisive victory. The prophecy would soon be his.

*****


	37. The Prophecy

**Chapter 37: The Prophecy**

Cyril Meadwater-Baker didn’t know much about the war. He knew why he wasn’t allowed to go outside anymore: It was because of You-Know-Who. The same You-Know-Who who had been defeated by the Boy-Who-Lived, as every Harry Potter novel he owned stated at least once. You-Know-Who had returned from death, though, like the Cuban Zombie Lord, and Harry Potter hadn’t used the Blessed Salt on him yet. Until the Boy-Who-Lived defeated You-Know-Who again, Cyril was stuck.

But he didn’t know much more about the war. His parents and grandparents didn’t tell him much, and he wasn’t allowed to read the Daily Prophet anymore. He wasn’t allowed to visit all of his friends either - some of them, his parents said, were ‘too exposed’, or ‘too dangerous’. He didn’t know how that worked. The last time he heard that, it had been about a very small robe, and a very fast broom.

It wasn’t that bad though - he was living at his grandparents’ house now, the big ‘Meadwater Mansion’, as his mother called it, and all of his cousins were there as well. Those who, like him, were not at Hogwarts yet, at least. And the cousins who had finished Hogwarts, but those were adults, and didn’t count - he couldn’t play with them. Well, he could play chess with Alphons Meadwater-Tryce, but he would lose all the time unless he could play with his grandfather’s set. But after his mother had heard the things the pieces said when they were taken he wasn’t allowed to play with that set anymore either.

He was about to ask Meribeth Meadwater-Brown to play seeker with him again - grandfather had allowed them to fly their toy brooms indoors, provided they avoided their grandmother’s rooms and the kitchen - when he saw his father enter through the door. That was weird- he usually came through the Floo connection, and much later in the day.

“Cyril! Come here!”

“Yes, dad!” The boy trotted over to his father, who was still wearing his office robes. His mum thought they were too boring, but dad said they fit his work at the Ministry.

Dad hugged him, as he usually did when he came home, even though Cyril was almost old enough to get his Hogwarts letter, far too old to get hugged like a baby!

Pouting, Cyril asked: “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I took the afternoon off so we can go shopping for your birthday present.”

“Oh?” Cyril perked up, smiling, then frowned. “You said that was too dangerous, and we’d owl-order.”

“I said that, but things have changed.” His father looked a bit distracted, Cyril thought. “And I think you deserve a big gift, with the war and all.”

“Oh!” His granny had said the same thing. Cyril had gotten far more dessert and gifts ever since they had moved in with his grandparents, even more so than he usually got at the big mansion. “Can I get the new Cleansweep 9 then?” Most of his cousins wanted a Firebolt, but Cyril knew they were too expensive, and the latest Cleansweep was the best overall broom on the market.

His father nodded. “Don’t tell your mother though, not until the birthday.”

Cyril beamed. “Let’s go then!” He turned to head to the Floo connection, but his dad held him back.

“We’ll apparate. It’s a surprise, remember?”

Cyril nodded, took his father’s hand, and the two went outside. He’d get a Cleansweep 9 for his birthday! This was a great day!

The apparition was weird, far worse than Floo travel. It felt as if a giant stuffed him into a small tube, then wrung him out again. Or so Cyril imagined. Floo travel was far better. But it was for a Cleansweep 9, so he’d not complain.

They didn’t arrive in Diagon Alley though, but on some field. “Dad, did you get lost? This isn’t Quality Quidditch Supplies!”

“Oh, no, Cyril. I already bought you the broom.” Dad pulled out a small package in broom form.

“But…” Cyril liked going shopping. There were so many things to look at. He had heard there would be a new joke shop opening even, soon at least. On the other hand, what really mattered that he got the broom he had told his parents so much about.

Another wizard in a ministry robe appeared. Cyril hadn’t heard the popping noise from apparition, so… had he been invisible? And why?

“Meadwater.” The man had a harsh voice.

Dad looked distracted again, even as he nodded. “Macnair.”

Cyril had heard about Macnair. His mother called him ‘the butcher’, and his father didn’t like him either. But Cyril knew he had to be polite even to people he didn’t like. Especially to people he didn’t like. “Hello, Mister!”

The wizard bent down and grinned at him. He looked scary, and Cyril gripped his dad’s hand tighter.

“Hello Cyril. Did you know there’s a prophecy about you?”

*****

“The Lestrange brothers are dead?” Neville Longbottom sounded as if he thought this was too good to be true. He looked hopeful though, sitting on one of the couches in the unused classroom that Harry and Hermione had taken over. The last classes for the day had finished, and if not for that news, they’d be already studying until dinner. And they’d study soon enough, if Hermione’s expression was any indication.

Harry Potter nodded at his friend. “Yes. It’s not been officially announced yet, so keep it a secret, but both were killed in the Balkans. Dumbledore told us so.” Sirius had told him that, to be precise, but his godfather had heard it straight from the Headmaster’s mouth in an Order meeting.

“I… I have to tell Gran.” Nevill said. He was breathing heavily. Ginny, sitting next to him, put her hands on his shoulder and thigh.

“Of course, Neville.” Harry was carefully ignoring the hint of tears in his friend’s eyes. He glanced at Hermione, sitting at his side, then at Ron. Both looked as uncomfortable watching their friend’s emotional reaction as he felt.

“Just don’t spread it around, it’ll be mentioned in the Prophet soon enough,” Hermione cautioned the Gryffindor.

“And in the Quibbler!” Luna added. “Would you have a quote for us?” The Ravenclaw witch leaned forward eagerly, her pad and quill floating out of her enchanted bag.

Aicha rolled her eyes, grabbed Luna’s collar and pulled her friend back to her seat. “There’s a time for interviews, Luna. And it’s not right now.”

“But…” Luna pouted. “Dad said a good reporter is always working.”

“And a good friend knows when not to work.”

Neville made a sound that was as much a chuckle as it was a sob. “It’s been months since they escaped… knowing they were out there, waiting… Merlin, I hope they died slowly and painfully.” He looked up at Harry, hopefully.

Harry shook his head. “We didn’t get any details. We don’t even know who killed them.”

Neville blinked. “But… Gran needs to know. I need to know.”

“She’ll have to ask the Headmaster then. But I doubt he’ll tell her. It might endanger whoever did it,” Hermione said.

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Neville stated in a flat tone what everyone had been thinking. The dark witch would certainly attempt to avenge her family’s death.

“Do you think she’ll go on a rampage?” Ron asked. Padma flinched at that.

“If she did she’ll likely get caught or killed,” Hermione said. Harry knew she thought that this would be, overall, a good thing. Fortunately, she didn’t share her opinion, nor let her expression show it. His girlfriend was sometimes a bit too ruthless for her own good.

He opened his mouth to reassure Neville that Bellatrix wouldn’t go after his grandmother when his forehead erupted in pain. Bending over, he barely could hear the others gasp, barely felt the blood running down his face, or Hermione’s arms around him, and then he was somewhere else, was someone else.

*****

_The boy was staring at him, tears running down his cheek. The child couldn’t move his eyes due to the Full Body-Bind Curse that held him, but he could still cry. He bent down, almost gently brushing the tears away from the child’s left eye. Next to the child, a muggle, tied with magical ropes and silenced, was desperately struggling. Both the boy and the muggle feared what was coming, even if neither knew what was about to happen to them. He laughed at the sight of the muggle screaming without making a sound, his feeble brain struggling to comprehend his situation as much as his body was to escape, both attempts doomed to fail._

_He raised his wand at the muggle. If he had the time, he’d draw it out - the ritual worked better if the sacrifice died slowly. The more pain, the more gain. But he lacked the time to do it properly. A silent Cutting Curse cut the man’s throat, and he bled out in less than a minute. A flick of his wrist had the blood float up, and gather in a golden bowl. He poured the red liquid down on the boy’s forehead, the ritual magic causing the blood to form his mark on the child’s skin as it dried far quicker than was natural. More blood was used to form runes all over the child’s head._

_A jab with his wand caused the dried blood to flare up, smoke rising from the forehead as the blood seemed to burn off over the course of several minutes, leaving unblemished, unmarked skin. The boy was still stiff, unable to do or say anything, despite the agony he had felt during the process._

_Only one thing left._

_“Obliviate.”_

Hermione Granger, shuddered as she retreated from the Headmaster’s pensieve. To think that Harry hadn’t just seen, but felt, lived through that… She hugged him, hard, comforting him, and herself.

It took Dumbledore a bit longer to leave the pensieve, but when he did, he looked very concerned. Almost shocked. And tired - but he had looked tired already when they had finally managed to meet him, late in the evening, after he had returned from a Wizengamot session.

“That didn’t look like the Horcrux ritual we saw before,” Hermione said, looking at the old wizard.

“It was not.” The old wizard led them back to his office. When all were seated, he conjured three glasses and floated a bottle of whiskey - muggle whiskey, Hermione noted - over. She briefly considered refusing, but decided against it. One small glass might do her good.

It didn’t. The burning sensation in her throat was not quite as bad as shooting fire out from her mouth, but it came close. That was not some normal whiskey!

The Headmaster spoke up again: “It was not, and yet it was - or so I think. I will have to study that ritual in more detail, and consult a few books to check the runes he used.”

“They looked like Harrapan, I think,” Hermione added. “The Indus script.” She didn’t know much about Magical India’s traditions, but she had read a book about ancient languages in her second year, to prepare for her third year.

“Oh? I do hope it doesn’t involve Kali,” the Headmaster looked at her with sudden interest, but didn’t elaborate.

According to her muggle source, the script was still undeciphered. But if the wizards of India had kept it in use… no, if they had kept it in use, more would be known about it. The Statute of Secrecy was only a few hundred years old, after all. “Do you have experiences with Indian magical traditions, sir?”

“Unfortunately I lack real experience. Or fortunately, given the subject matter. India’s Magical Castes are very insular, and do not share their knowledge with those not born into the caste. I suspect Tom acquired the knowledge he just demonstrated through underhanded or violent means.”

“To turn a child into a Horcrux,” Harry spat out. Hermione saw how tense he was, how angry and disgusted. She understood - she had been focusing on the academic aspects, and tried not to think of the consequences of that ritual. “Why did he do that? He has to have a reason!”

“While it is possible that he simply wanted to add another soul anchor, hidden from everyone, I do suspect another motive. Today’s session at the Wizengamot was unusually long, due to several delays and obstructions of the planned proceedings. If that was done to keep me occupied and unable to interfere, then that would strongly indicate this ritual was more important than his others.”

“If the delay was the work of his agents and spies, can they be exposed due to that?” Harry asked.

“I fear that they were working through unwitting pawns - something the Wizengamot sadly is not lacking in.” Dumbledore sighed with a tired smile. “But I will mention this to Amelia, who can authorize an investigation.” He looked at Harry and Hermione. “I do not have to stress that this needs the utmost secrecy. If Tom realises that Harry can see what he is doing during rituals…”

Hermione nodded repeatedly. “I told our friends who witnessed it that they can’t tell anyone about this, and they only know Harry’s scar started bleeding.”

“It would have been better if they had not seen anything, but it’ll do for now.” Dumbledore sighed again, and Hermione had the distinct impression that he was considering other measures to preserve the secret of Harry’s connection to Voldemort. She didn’t say anything though - she knew perfectly well how important that secrecy was for Harry’s safety.

“I think that is all for now. Here is a pass in case you encounter a prefect.”

Harry took the pass before he left the office with Hermione.

Outside, Hermione saw Harry sigh, and lean against the wall. He looked as tired and exhausted as the Headmaster, right then. Hermione glanced around. No one else was nearby. There shouldn’t be a prefect patrol either at this hour.

She stepped up and embraced her boyfriend. If he was surprised at her breaking her act as the dutiful retainer in semi-public, he didn’t show it. He just hugged and kissed her.

*****

The early light of the rising sun shone into Albus Dumbledore’s office when he closed the last book he had consulted. He had studied the memory in the pensieve for hours, all throughout the night. It had taken two Pepper-Up potions to keep going without getting sloppy. Minerva and Poppy would be incensed if they knew what he had done. But it had been needed - he was now reasonably certain what Tom was planning. But that did not mean he knew what he could, and should be doing about it.

Those Indian runes all were related to Perception and Possession. The boy had not just been turned into a Horcrux, but into a vessel for Voldemort’s senses. One he could control from afar, unless Albus was greatly mistaken. And one that shared part of the Dark Lord’s soul. A vessel that would be able to access the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries.

The old wizard didn’t know the name of the poor child, now doomed, but he was likely the subject of another prophecy stored in the Hall of Prophecies, and therefore would be allowed to enter. Unless Albus alerted Saul of the danger.

But could he do that? Voldemort would be certainly stopped, but he’d not be hurt. And he’d know that somehow, Albus had known of his plan. It wouldn’t take him long to eliminate the possible leaks and spies. But would he find out that Harry could see through his eyes? That was very likely, even more so with Harry’s friends, not trained in Occlumency, having witnessed that scene. Obliviation sounded more and more like the best course of action. On the other hand, if Voldemort wasn’t stopped - or not by measures taken right after his ritual, there remained the possibility that Saul’s current precautions would stop him - then he might assume, should he hear about Harry’s reaction, that the boy simply felt pain whenever Voldemort worked ritual magic. Might - it was by no means certain, and Albus knew well how dangerous and foolish it was to hope an enemy made a mistake. He could start rumors that Harry was a seer, but that was unlikely to fool the Dark Lord. It remained a possible cover story, though. Albus would have to discuss it with Sirius and his godson.

But that didn’t change the fact that no matter how he twisted it, he had to decide if protecting the prophecy was worth revealing Harry’s connection.

Albus stood up and started to pace in his office, waking Fawkes up, who trilled at him in concern. “I am alright, old friend, just thinking,” he told his companion.

The answer was that the prophecy wasn’t worth it. The Dark Lord hadn’t let his lack of knowledge about its contents hold him back much, if at all. And as he was getting more desperate by losing so many followers, he’d throw caution in the wind anyway. Further, Harry already was marked by the Dark Lord, both literally and figuratively, as the symbol of Tom’s first defeat. He already wanted to murder the boy, knowing that they were destined to face each other wouldn’t change that.

No, protecting the prophecy wasn’t worth the possible loss of more insight into the Dark Lord’s plans and rituals. Especially not with that disturbing sacrifice of a werewolf.

So Albus wouldn’t inform Saul. Would hope that either the Unspeakables’ protections were strong enough to stop the Dark Lord, or that Voldemort would bypass them without hurting anyone. And would hope that in the end, his gamble would be proven correct, and not turn out to be one of his many grave mistakes.

And he’d hope against hope that the unknown young boy the Dark Lord was sacrificing would survive, somehow. Even though he knew that as a Horcrux, the child was doomed already.

*****

Cyril Meadwater-Baker kept bouncing from one foot to the other. There was a prophecy about him! He was special! His dad had told him so this morning, and was now taking him to see the prophecy! Cyril was so excited, he had managed to forget all about the fight between his mum and his dad, when she had found out about his birthday gift shopping trip. Cyril hadn’t understood why that had been a bad thing, just because she hadn’t known about it. But that was why she shouldn’t know about this, or about the new robe his dad had gotten him today as well - mum was ‘too emotional’.

“If you’ll follow me, Misters Meadwater-Baker,” the man with his face hidden by his robe - the Unspeakable! - said, motioning for Cyril and his dad to enter into the Department of Mysteries! It was like in ‘Harry Potter and the Magical Mystery’!

They were descending in a special lift, even his father had never been in that one, and he had been working for the Ministry since before Cyril had been born!

“Welcome to the Department of Mysteries,” the Unspeakable said. Cyril wondered if he was smiling, under his cowl. “I’ll lead you to the Hall of Prophecies, after a quick check for curses.”

The wizard - or witch, the voice was … weird … took out a wand and started casting. Cyril flinched, he didn’t know why - he wasn’t cursed, after all. But neither he nor dad were cursed, or under any spell, at least no spell that wasn’t a normal spell. Cyril didn’t know why his dad seemed embarrassed.

“You’ll have to wait here, sir. Only the direct subjects of a prophecy are allowed inside the hall,” the Unspeakable said, holding up his wand.

“What? I’m his father, I need to know about the prophecy concerning my son!” Dad sounded angry, but not as angry as last evening, when he had fought with mum.

“Security reasons, sir. You understand.”

Dad grudgingly nodded, looking a bit like when mum had convinced him to move in with their grandparents. Cyril didn’t really pay that much attention though. The other wizard led him through a door, into a room with a dozen door, a room that moved around itself!

And then they were walking down a shiny stone hallway, with lots of pillars, towards one of the biggest doors Cyril had ever seen. It was bigger than the gate back at his grandparents’ house! When it slowly opened, Cyril also could see that it was thicker than their family vault door at Gringotts. It had to take powerful spells to move it at all!

When he stepped into the Hall of Prophecies, Cyril held his breath, but no spell struck him down - he was meant to be there! Just as his dad had said. Looking around, he spotted rows upon rows of shelves, all packed with blue globes. “Are those…?”

“Yes, Cyril. Those are the prophecy records. Each stores a prophecy, and only those it concerns can access it.” Cyril stared at him, and he added “Only those who are mentioned in the prophecy can take one and listen to it.” Ah!

Behind them, the massive door closed, and for a second, Cyril was deathly afraid. He just knew, somehow, he’d not leave this hall again.

It was his last thought, before he started to scream with pain.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort didn’t take more than a second to push his consciousness past the weak resistance the boy provided and take control of the child’s body. Long enough for the Unspeakable to realise something was wrong, but not long enough to do stop him before he took control and dodged the first spell, rolling behind the next shelf.

His now small hand dipped into the concealed pocket in the robe, where the wand Steinberg had provided had been hidden this morning. As soon as he touched it, he felt a rush of power. It wasn’t a perfect match, like his yew wand, but it sung to him anyway.

The Unspeakable was good and smart. He was disillusioned already, and retreating. But he wasn’t good enough, not when facing the Dark Lord - no matter what body he was currently using. He wasn’t a mere shade anymore, not after his resurrection. A flick of his wrist had the floor around the vault door rise and seal it off. Whispered words put up Anti-Disillusion and Apparition Jinxes. Just in case the Unspeakables had found ways to ward the hall against apparition and still apparate inside it.

He could feel the wand struggle slightly with those spells. It seemed to burn with the desire to cast dark spells. Smiling cruelly, he obliged it, sending a volley of dark curses at the other wizard. None of them hit, but they forced his opponent to move where he wanted him to move to. And the spells Voldemort was using were so easy to cast… far easier than he was used to.

He didn’t even feel the pain from the possession that had sent the boy into a screaming fit and had needed an effort from the Dark Lord, intimately familiar with pain in all its forms, to ignore. His smile widened as a his next barrage forced the hooded wizard further back.

The Unspeakable was not giving up though, and sent curses of his own at Voldemort. He must have realised that he wasn’t facing a child, and judging by the selection of spells hitting the protective barriers around the prophecies, he was quite versed in the Dark Arts himself. The Dark Lord was forced to dodge, and conjure shields of stone and metal to absorb some of the curses.

The outcome though was never in doubt. A Head-Shriveling Curse almost hit the man, a Heartcrusher sent half his robe smoking, and an Organ-Rotting Curse made him jump back, right onto the patch of marble the Dark Lord had spelled when the fight had started. Stone vines shot up from it, twisting around the man’s legs and piercing them with barbs longer and sharper than a shark’s teeth.

Voldemort chuckled when he heard what a desperate scream sounded like, with the Unspeakable’s voice-changing enchantment working. He had to finish the fight before help could arrive though, and couldn’t enjoy himself. Floating up behind a shelf, he pointed his wand at the struggling wizard.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The Unspeakable was good. Faced with the choice of letting the stone vines crush and impale him, or letting the Killing Curse hit him, he managed to stop both by blasting the vines’ base and flinging them into the path of the curse. The stone fragments that were sent flying from the resulting explosions hurt him further though, and he didn’t manage to stop or dodge Voldemort’s second Killing Curse.

A quick detection spell originally developed for libraries pointed the Dark Lord at the one prophecy mentioning Harry Potter. The vault door was starting to open, but was blocked by his sealing spell. It wouldn’t hold out for long, but neither would his body - the damage from the possession and the feedback from Steinberg’s wand was too great.

It didn’t matter though. All he needed now was to listen, and both his spell and this body would last long enough. He flew to the shelf and grabbed the orb, then touched it with his wand. At once the unearthly voice of a seer caught up in a vision filled his ears.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord…”

He was laughing when the Unspeakables broke through his sealing spell, laughing as the child’s body he was possessing was breaking down, bleeding from his mouth, ears and eyes, and laughing when he was back in his own body.

Bellatrix, who had waited at his side, guarding his body in his absence, smiled at him. “My lord? You succeeded?”

He nodded.

“I did. I now know the full prophecy.” And he knew he had been a fool.

*****

Harry Potter stared at the Headmaster, who had just told him that Voldemort had managed to learn the contents of the prophecy linking the two of them together. Despite the precautions taken by the Unspeakables. He stood up, anger filling him. Anger and dread. “How was that possible? You said only those mentioned in it could access it! Did they let the Dark Lord walk into the Ministry?” He barely noticed Hermione standing up as well and placing a hand on his shoulder, nor Fawkes flapping his wings.

“In a manner of speaking,” was the calm reply. “He possessed the boy you had seen in the vision, who was a subject of another prophecy, and therefore allowed to enter the Hall of Prophecies.”

Possession… so that had been the ritual’s purpose! But… “Like Quirrell?” he asked, remembering that night when that teacher had died. Had been killed. By Harry.

“Yes. He did not burn to ashes, but he did not survive the Dark Lord possessing him.”

Harry sat down, leaning forward and covering his face with his hands. Another innocent victim dead because of the Dark Lord, and he hadn’t been able to do anything but watch! Hermione gently rubbed his back and pressed her thigh against his.

“Do not blame yourself, Harry. There was nothing you could have done,” Dumbledore tried to console him. It didn’t help much. Harry knew he couldn’t have done anything, but that didn’t change how guilty he felt.

“Sir?” Hermione spoke up. She sounded uncertain, nervous. Harry put his hands down and glanced at her. The muggleborn witch was biting her lower lip, and twisting a finger around a lock of her hair. She was nervous. He reached for her hand, trying to comfort and reassure her.

“Yes?”

Harry’s girlfriend pushed her chin up a bit, almost defiantly. “Did you let the Dark Lord get the prophecy?”

What? Why would Hermione ask… Harry whipped his head around to stare at the Headmaster.

The old wizard sighed deeply. “You are as perceptive as always, Miss Granger. I suspected what the Dark Lord was planning this morning, after analyzing Harry’s memory all night. And yes, I had decided not to inform the Department of Mysteries of my suspicion.”

“But why didn’t you…” Harry blinked. Why had the Headmaster let the Dark Lord get the prophecy, after all the efforts spent to deny him that knowledge?

“The price would have been too high, Harry. If his attempt to get the prophecy had been foiled, the the Dark Lord he would have started to look for the spy that revealed his plans to me, and would have become aware of your connection. That would have led to him taking steps to sever it. Or he might have attempted to attack you through it.” Dumbledore looked at them over his reading glasses.

“But he has the prophecy now!” Harry retorted.

“That he did - but he already knew half of it. Knowing it entirely does not change much, if anything at all. As much as I loathe to say it, he was already planning to kill you, since you’re responsible for his first defeat.”

Hermione’s grip on his hand grew stronger, and Harry swallowed. He had known that the Dark Lord wanted to kill him for years now, but to spell it out like that…

”I understand.” He did, but he still didn’t like it. “But there will be a time when the price will not be too high.” He met the Headmaster’s gaze without flinching.

“I hope that when that day arrives, that your situation will have changed,” Dumbledore answered, glancing at Harry’s scar. As did Hermione.

There wasn’t much Harry could say to that.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick shook his head as he entered the Auror offices in the Ministry of Magic. “And again we’re getting the most volatile case! Investigating a murder in the Department of Mysteries! A murder where the main suspect is You-Know-Who himself, according to Bones! Someone must hate us!” He wasn’t fond of the Unspeakables, despite the help they provided to the DMLE on occasion. Who could trust people who hid their faces from everyone?

His partner, Bertha Limmington, raised an eyebrow at him while she checked the paper aeroplanes and parchment rolls that had piled up on her desk during their most recent absence. Kenneth studiously ignored his own stack.

When she saw that her eyebrow had no effect on him - he was used to it, by now - she said: “Would you rather do combat duty than run an investigation?” She didn’t have to add ‘like a Hit-Wizard’; he understood her meaning perfectly well.

Pouting, he said: “I’d like to have a simple case, for once. Not one involving the Unspeakables and the Dark Lord.”

Bertha shrugged. “The better you are, the harder the cases assigned to you get.”

“And the more dangerous.”

“That’s probably your fault,” Bertha stated, in a deadpan voice, while she sorted her memos and letters with her wand.

“What?”

“The boss probably fears that without enough danger, you’ll get bored.” Bertha grinned when he gaped at her for a second, before he realised she had made a joke. She chuckled, briefly, when Kenneth huffed. Then she grew serious again. “It also may mean that we’re the most trusted Aurors in the DMLE. Especially with a case that strongly hints at the involvement of at least one covert Death Eater and the Dark Lord himself!.”

Kenneth didn’t know if he should be proud or worried if the two of them were the most trusted Aurors. He sighed instead. “Let’s check the Hall of Prophecies, before it gets lost in another dimension.”

Bertha raised her eyebrows at him, and he held up his hands defensively. “Hey! I listen to the grapevine! They never found that missing Unspeakable, and that was ten years ago.”

The trip down to the Department of Mysteries and then to the Hall of Prophecies didn’t take long. When the door slowly opened, Kenneth quipped: “Does Gringotts know that someone stole their most secure vault?” The Unspeakable escorting them didn’t say anything, but Bertha glared at him. He shrugged. He had to say something before he got creeped out by their silent escort and the rumors of what was stored in the other rooms of the department.

The hall was large and filled with shelves of those blue orbs, prophecy records. “Did the intruder and the victim fight here?” Kenneth asked their escort as they walked to where the victim - or the first victim - had been found.

“Yes.” The hooded figure answered in that voice that made it impossible to even guess their gender. If it still had one.

“There’s no damage visible to the shelves or the room.” The Auror looked around.

“Very strong protective enchantments. Non-standard ones.” Bertha was studying the closest shelf. The Unspeakable didn’t confirm or comment.

Kenneth sighed and studied the shelves himself while Bertha crouched down and ran her wand over the dead wizard on the marble floor. “Cause of death was the Killing Curse. Multiple stabbing wounds in the legs, though no visible source. Lots of residue from multiple dark curses,” she dictated to her floating quill.

Kenneth was certain not all of those curses had been cast by the Dark Lord. There were rumors about the Unspeakables, after all. Even though he didn’t believe that demonstrating all three Unforgivables was a required test to get hired, and a way to force them to keep the departments secret by the threat of a life sentence in Azkaban.

He took a closer look at the victim. “That looks like the work of an Amazonian Murdervine. But a huge one.” He remembered the pictures he had seen in that Herbology lesson very well. 12-year-olds were easy to impress. Or to traumatize. Sprout had stopped using that particular example for the dangers magical plants could pose even to a skilled wizard afterwards, or so he had heard.

Bertha flicked her wand. “No traces of plant matter.”

“It might have been a transfigured one. But there’s no sign of any changes to the environment.” The shelves he could understand - they gleamed with enchantments. But the floor, or ceiling?

“The room is enchanted to restore itself,” the Unspeakable informed them.

Kenneth sighed, and Bertha even glared at the wizard. “Why weren’t we informed of that at once? We would have come straight here before possible evidence vanished.”

“According to procedure, information about the department’s organisation and layout can only be divulged with special permission.”

Kenneth scoffed, but didn’t press further. He had long since learned that to argue with the bureaucracy was fruitless. That didn’t mean he’d not do it anyway - but he had also learned not to burn bridges, especially not during a case. “Let’s look at the child.” When he saw that the Unspeakable cast a bubblehead charm in response, Kenneth had a sinking feeling in his gut.

The corpse of the boy, Cyril Meadwater-Baker, looked like it had rotted for months. It probably smelled worse. “He looks like he broke apart at the seams.” Kenneth peered at what had been an arm. “Did the first victim hit him with a curse?”

Bertha shook her head. “That’s the effect of the possession. Though it usually takes far longer to reach that point.” She looked at the Unspeakable.

“Time was not manipulated in this vault,” was the answer to her unspoken question. The witch looked relieved. Kenneth knew Bertha’s logical mind had issues with time travel and similar magic.

He nodded at the remains spread out over a square yard. “So, something sped the process up. By a lot.” It didn’t take a genius to know that the Dark Lord was probably responsible. “The question is: What did it?”

“The cause of death is deterioration of the body caused by possession. That means the second death is confirmed as another victim,” Bertha summarised.

“Unless it was willing possession,” Kenneth cut in.

Bertha nodded. “Unlikely, but possible. Where’s the prophecy record the possessed accessed?” His partner stood up, and Kenneth couldn’t help but noticing how her new robes fit her body. She had changed her style, ever since that undercover mission they wouldn’t be talking about.

“That’s classified and not germane to the investigation,” the Unspeakable droned.

“What? That record was the culprit’s goal!” Bertha exclaimed.

“Yes. And all you need to know is that it was a prophecy mentioning the Dark Lord.” The inhuman voice of the Unspeakable sounded even creepier right then.

“I’ll lodge a protest with our superior,” Bertha spat.

The Unspeakable didn’t answer, which Kenneth took to mean that this would be useless. Judging by Bertha’s expression, she shared his impression.

“Let’s go talk to the victim’s father.” The witch all but stormed out of the Hall of Prophecies. Or would have, if the Unspeakable hadn’t taken his time to open the door.

Kenneth really didn’t like the Unspeakables.

*****

Kenneth studied the wizard sitting in the small room across from him and Bertha. Jaime Meadwater-Baker. Gryffindor, like Kenneth, but five years younger. Young enough for Kenneth to not recall ever speaking to him at Hogwarts. Meadwater-Baker looked like the broken man he probably was, after losing his son to the Dark Lord.

“My condolences for your loss,” Kenneth said.

The wizard shakingly nodded. “Thank you… I don’t know how this happened, but it is all my fault. If I hadn’t taken him down there yesterday morning…”

“Mister Meadwater-Baker, at that point your son had already been possessed. Something must have happened earlier,” Bertha explained. ”Can you remember anything out of the ordinary?”

The man gave an account of his last two days, interrupted by crying fits. On the day before the incident, he had worked in the morning on expansion charm controls, and spent the afternoon broom shopping with his son.

“Your memory shows signs of having been tampered with”, Bertha summarized the results of her tests once the man had finished.

“What? But…” Meadwater-Baker trailed off, gaping.

“Yes. We’ll look into this shopping trip. Where did you buy the broom?” Bartha said, cool and collected.

“Quality Quidditch Supplies… Cyril wanted a toy broom as well, matching the model, but I told him he could get a real broom, or a toy, not both… at least I remember it like that…”

Kenneth fought not to wince. Losing his son, and then realizing his last happy memory with him might be a fabrication… that was terrible.

Bertha, of course, was all business. “We will check with the shop and the clerks working two days ago. Do you remember any of the staff?”

Meadwater-Baker nodded, but his description focused more on the Quidditch robes the staff wore than their actual appearance. It would be enough to check up on though.

Someone had controlled the man, and modified his memory.

Kenneth swore they’d find the bastard and arrest him.

*****

Paige Caldwell stared at the man, the wizard, who had appeared in the garden of her current residence. It looked like a decrepit house from the outside, but she had managed to repair the inside and she had a deft hand for transfiguring furniture out of debris. A deft hand, and a lot of experience - life as a werewolf in Britain had given her ample opportunities to practise such spells, since she’d never had a place that hadn’t been in dire need for repairs. She wasn’t good at warding though, which was a very bad thing in the current war, and due to her curse, she wasn’t welcome at her family’s mansion. ‘Dark creatures are a risk for the children’, as the woman who had been her mother put it.

“Who’re you, and what are you doing here?” she spat out, challenging the visitor. A smarter witch would have been more polite, a more cautious witch would have moved back inside her home for some cover, but she was a cursed witch. She was a decent wand at fighting, often out of necessity, and with the way she and other werewolves were always pushed around by the Ministry, with new regulations seemingly implemented each year, she was rather averse to giving ground in her home, her territory. If the wizard tried to push her, she’d push back, and worse.

“I’m Phineas Brown, and I’m here to speak to you, Miss Caldwell,” the man said, politely. He didn’t meet her eyes, or challenged her in any other form.

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “What about?”

“Your life.”

She gasped, and raised her wand. He raised his hands, empty of his own wand. “I’m just here to talk. I have a proposal for you.”

“Speak!” She tensed up. If he made any kind of threatening move, she’d curse him and charge forward. She knew she was faster than most, and close to the full moon, the urge to beat, tear at something, someone, was slowly growing.

“Might we talk inside? It’s a private matter.”

He wanted to step into her home. Her safe place… she almost growled, but then nodded. She wasn’t a beast, she was a witch, and she had manners. Even if she didn’t always show it.

She saw he was looking around with interest in her living room, which she’d turn into her bedroom once she was about to sleep by transfiguring the couch into a bed.

“Impressive use of charms and transfigurations, Miss Caldwell.” He nodded at her, the compliment somewhat ruined by his patronising tone. She wouldn’t summon her tea set for him, that much was clear.

Paige still nodded, accepting the compliment. She knew how to conduct herself in polite society.

“And yet… for a witch of your talents, this is a rather poor venue to live in.”

She snarled at him. He had to know very well why she had to live like this. “I manage.”

“Oh, no one would ever doubt that. But should you be content with ‘managing’, or would you prefer to excel? To live in a land where being cursed with lycanthropy doesn’t lead to such discrimination? Where you can live the life you deserve?”

Paige scoffed. If there was such a country, she’d already be living there. Apart from the Scandinavian Communities - and after dating a berserker for a few months she knew all about their own brand of lunacy - there was no country that hadn’t some unfair anti-werewolf laws. “There’s no such thing.”

“Not yet, there isn’t. But it will be, and soon.”

That offer… the obvious fake name… “You mean Britain.”

His smile widened, flashing white teeth at her. Too white, too polished, That one never had fought for his life with teeth and claws. “Indeed.”

“And you’re telling me You-Know-Who would make the country a better place for me?” She didn’t want to believe it. She knew how cruel, how evil the Dark Lord was. How many he and his had murdered.

And yet, she had also known that she was her parents’ daughter, that they would always protect her, that they would never hurt her. One tragic event had shown her the error of her beliefs. Why should she trust those who kept harassing her with more and more rules and regulations each month?

The wizard was smiling still. “He is generous to those who are loyal to him. And he has a long tradition of appreciating your kind.”

She also knew the Prophet claimed You-Know-Who had been losing wands left and right. But why would she believe that rag, given the lies it published about werewolves?

“I’m listening.”

*****

Ron Weasley should be happy. He was strolling around Black Lake with his girlfriend, Padma Patil. The sun was shining, and the weather was warm, but not yet hot, perfect even if neither of them were wearing charmed robes. He had no study session scheduled, no training awaited him, and the Chudley Cannons had won their latest game. He should be happy, but he wasn’t. And the reason for that was walking at his side.

“What happened to Harry?” Padma asked, not for the first time.

“Nothing,” he answered, not for the first time either.

“But…”

He cut her off. “No ‘but’. Nothing happened.” She pouted at him, like Parvati often did. He didn’t mention that, of course. “Didn’t you hear Hermione? We’re not talking about this.” He made sure his privacy spells were still working, just in case.

“She meant not talking to anyone else, we were both there, we can talk about it.” Padma was stubborn about this. She hadn’t let up for the whole time they had been walking together. That wasn’t how he had imagined their stroll.

“We won’t though.” Padma already had seen too much, Ron knew.

“Why not? Don’t you trust me?” The Indian witch wasn’t quite sniffling, but Ron knew she was close.

“Of course I trust you, but this is simply too dangerous to trust anyone with it.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, trying to comfort her.

It didn’t work. She didn’t shrug him off, at least. “But you, Harry and Hermione know about it.”

“Well, yes.” As soon as he said it, he knew he had made a mistake.

This time she shrugged him off and walked a bit faster, obviously angry. His longer legs caught up to her easily. Before he could say anything though, she was talking already. Or ranting.

“I’m always the odd one out, the one no one trusts! The one not good enough! Everyone else knows so much more, can do so much more, and now I am not even trusted to talk about something I saw with you!” she sobbed, and he saw tears running over her cheek.

“I trust you!” He tried to hug her, but she took a step back.

“You don’t act like it!”

“I can’t talk about that. It’s too dangerous!” He was getting angry himself now. Why didn’t she understand that he loved and trusted her - but that this was for her own good?

“But you talk with Harry and Hermione about it!”

She knew that already. He nodded. “Of course!” they were his best friends.

“What do I have to do so you trust me as well as you trust them?” She stared at him, sobbing still, her whole body tense.

He didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t as if he could give her a to-do list, to earn that kind of trust. It didn’t work like that. And the kind of things that did create such trust he didn’t want her to go through. Or suffer through.

But he had to answer, before she ran off, hurt even more. “It takes time.” That sounded lame, even to him.

And Padma stormed off anyway. Ron let her go. She wasn’t taking this well, all the pressure from the O.W.L.s, the war, and from Parkinson. And, he finally realised, he didn’t, couldn’t trust her to stand up to that kind of pressure. To not blurt the secret out in a heated row.

He had to talk to Harry and Hermione.

*****

“Sir?”

Albus Dumbledore looked at the young witch while he levitated Yennington’s body back onto the bed in the corner. “Yes, Miss Granger?” He was tired - the session had been productive, but exhausting - but the witch might have caught something he had missed, unlikely but not impossible.

“Will you be obliviating our other friends as well?”

Albus smiled. “I think they can be trusted not to let anything slip.” He didn’t have to add ‘unlike Miss Patil’. Harry, Miss Granger and Mister Weasley had told him about her, after all.

“It would be hard to learn Occlumency by the end of the school year though, especially with the studying needed for our O.W.L.s. I’m quite glad Harry, Ron and I learned it already.”

“Quite. But memories can be removed, and later restored as well.” Albus didn’t know if the young witches and wizards would go along with that. He hoped they would. If not… he’d do what he had to. And had done.

“Ah.” Miss Granger smiled, relief obvious on her face, and she was notably less tense during the trip back to his office, and the waiting Harry.

Once the couple had left Albus’s office, he pulled out a scroll of parchment that had arrived earlier that day, carried by a nondescript owl. Saving Gerhard Steiner from a life sentence in prison, or even execution, for a mistake Albus would have made as well, at that age, had certainly turned out to have been a very wise decision. Without the Transfiguration teacher at Durmstrang Albus would have been unable to keep a close eye on Igor.

Durmstrang’s Headmaster had held out against the influence from his former master for an admirably long time, but every man would break under that pressure, sooner or later. And according to the letter, Igor had reached his breaking point now.

Albus pulled out a scroll of parchment and summoned his quill. It was time to act.

*****


	38. Breakthroughs and Betrayals

**Chapter 38: Breakthroughs and Betrayals**

Igor Karkaroff, Headmaster of the Durmstrang Institute, arrived late in the Mess Hall. His students were sitting at their tables already, silently waiting for the food to arrive, waiting for him to start dinner, the stupid worms. He looked at the Bulgarian table, where Krum had sat during his time at school. Ungrateful wretch. He looked at the staff sitting at his table, saw them staring at him. Backstabbing blood traitors, whispering behind his back, plotting, hoping he’d fall. His wand slid out of his wrist-mounted holster into his hand. He wanted to blow the table, the hall up. Turn the tables into kindling, pepper the little pests with splinters, make them bleed and cry, kill the blood traitors before they opposed his…

He took a deep, shuddering breath and fought the urge down. He hadn’t killed anyone in years. Not since the Dark Lord had been defeated in Britain. He wouldn’t start now!

He waved his wand, and at once the dishes started to float out of the kitchen into the hall, spreading out over the tables. The students transfigured or conjured their plates and silverware - that late in the year, even the first years had learned that, and wouldn’t need the very plain ones provided by the school, though not many of them would be up to conjure the kind of elaborately designed plates the older students used to show off.

“Smacznego.”

As the students started to eat, Igor sank down into his chair. He ignored the looks, the glares from the staff as he summoned some food on his plate, then started to eat without tasting anything. It wasn’t the food, he knew that - it was him. As soon as he had finished he stood up, nodded at the rest of the staff and left.

Back in his quarters, secure on the lowest level of the institute’s basement, behind the strongest wards he could have had installed, he allowed himself to vent. Screaming with rage, he ran past his office, to his living room, and started blowing up his furniture. He only stopped when the room was a cratered mess. He was panting, but the urge to lash out at those wretches, to kill them, hadn’t abated. He transfigured the wreckage into animals - wolves, stags, dogs, cats - and killed them with the darkest curses he knew, but even seeing them writhe in agony, their entrails strangling them, their flesh rotting off their bones, did not satisfy him. They were not alive. They were not even dumb animals.

For a moment he felt like visiting the pond of the Institute. Kill some of the creatures held there. He could claim they were too dangerous for the students. He shook his head. No one would believe it. Maybe if he killed the werewolves at the school… his hand started to tremble. No, they hadn’t done anything. To him, or to the Dark Lord.

He slid his wand back into its holster with enough force to bruise his wrist, then went to his office. He had work to do. There were reports to read and exams to check. Before he could finish his first roll of parchment though, his door announced a visitor.

He had his wand out and ready to curse before he even bothered to look at the small crystal ball on his desk that told him the name of the visitor. Steiner. The blood traitor. His Transfiguration Master. What in the Nine Hells was the old fool up to, disturbing him in the evening?

Igor flicked his wand, closing the door to his quarters - he hadn’t yet restored his living room - then opened the door to let his visitor in. Steiner entered, his eyes opening in surprise when he saw the wand aimed at him. “Good evening, Headmaster.” He sounded sycophantic as always. Igor knew he was after his position. He knew the man had never really renounced Grindelwald’s ideals. He was a double traitor - a blood traitor, and one of Grindelwald’s wands.

Igor longed to send the wizard away, but properties had to be followed. “Good evening, professor. How can I help you?” He kept his wand aimed at the man - Igor trusted his wards, but Steiner was a few decades his senior, and who knew what a former Storm Wizard could do? The things he had seen in the Institute’s archives…

“You’re feeling his presence in your mind, don’t you?”

Igor felt as if the blood in his veins froze. How did the professor knew about this? He glanced at the man’s left arm, hidden by his seemingly modest teacher’s robe.

Steiner shook his head. “I’m not one of his.” The professor sneered. “I’d never be one of his.”

Igor snarled at him. Of course the man’d never follow anyone but Grindelwald. “So, whose wand are you?”

Steiner frowned, but Igor went on before he could lie. “You’re someone’s creature. If you were not, if you were fit to lead, you’d be the Headmaster, not me.”

Steiner glared at him now, but didn’t deny it.

“We’re both traitors, but I at least decided to stand up for myself,” Igor scoffed. “So, who…” then he knew. “Dumbledore. You’re his.” The only one who’d know what the Dark Lord was up to. What he could do.

Steiner didn’t answer, but his expression told Igor he was correct. “What does my dear colleague want then?”

“He knows that you’re slowly being corrupted by your master’s mark. That sooner or later he’ll win, and turn you into a slave - or a mindless animal,” Steiner stated as if he were talking about the weather.

Igor ground his teeth. He knew that already. Hated it, of course. “I asked what he wanted, not what he knew.”

“He offers you sanctuary, until your master has been dealt with.”

“The Dark Lord cannot be easily ‘dealt with’,” Igor said through his clenched teeth. He felt rage when the insolent wizard sneered slightly in response - as if he was not acknowledging his master’s power. His former master’s power, Igor corrected himself. He almost cursed the professor, but controlled himself. “Nor can he be quickly dealt with. He came back from the dead, after all.”

Steiner showed that insufferable, almost invisible sneer again, though his voice was polite when he said: “If you’d prefer it, you’d be unconscious for the duration of the war.”

Igor snorted. “Unconscious, unable to defend my own mind? Would Dumbledore actually try to trap me like that? He might as well offer me a quick and painless death!”

Steiner’s expression didn’t change, and Igor once again really wanted to curse the insolent, mocking wizard. “That’s what he offers, right? He offers to kill me before the Dark Lord takes control?” As if he’d let himself be slaughtered like a dumb animal. He’d kill himself. Once the time had come.

The other wizard nodded. He looked wary now.

Igor bared his teeth. The plotting worm probably looked forward to killing him, wanted to replace him. And Dumbledore would control two schools. “I reject his ‘gracious offer’,” he spat out. “I’ll handle my affairs myself.”

“You’re running out of time. The longer you’re waiting, the greater the danger you’re posing for our students.” Steiner stared at him. The hypocrite, as if he cared about the students!

“That’s what you think, right? You want to kill me. You think I’m weak, and a coward, for betraying the Dark Lord. Even though you did the same!” He was standing now, facing the traitor.

Steiner’s smile was answer enough for him.

“Avada Kedavra!”

His Killing Curse flew true, but was stopped when the stone floor of his office rose as a wall in front of the professor. The wall was shattered by the spell’s impact, but the Transfiguration professor had his wand out now.

Igor wasn’t that worried though - they were in his office, inside his own wards. The best his gold had managed to buy! And it felt good, no, glorious, to finally cut loose, to vent his rage on a deserving target!

He sent spell after spell at the man, using curses he hadn’t cast since the last war. Steiner used more transfigured walls to protect himself. The Prussian didn’t even try to return spells, he had to know the wards would render them powerless! And his walls were shattering under Igor’s curses! And the door was locked so he’d not be able to escape!

The Headmaster was laughing when he launched a Blighting Curse followed by an Organ Rotting Curse at his wanna-be murderer. He would kill the upstart, and then he’d show Dumbledore the folly of trying to get him killed - of offering to kill him!

Steiner had run out of walls, and his shield crumbled under the first curse, with his robe barely absorbing the next. The fight would be over in a few seconds - unless Igor decided to drag it out. He shook his head at the temptation - he couldn’t afford to play around right now.

He started to move his wand when he noticed that his arm felt heavier, slower. Then the pain started. What had Steiner done? He had trouble standing, but managed to drop into his seat rather than falling to the floor. His wand clattered on the floor when he lost any feeling in his fingers.

“P-poison?” he managed to stammer, laboring to keep breathing already. But how? Why hadn’t his enchantments warned him, or prevented this? “H-how?”

Steiner shook his head at him. “I’m no alchemist. I simply transfigured the poison so it would deliver itself, so to speak.”

Alchemy? This was Dumbledore’s poison? Igor wanted to scream, but he couldn’t do anything. Not even breathe. And the pain had become even worse.

“It doesn’t look painless to me. I assume that making certain you’d die was more important than doing it painlessly.” Steiner looked down at him, his features showing both pity and satisfaction.

The pain had become unbearable when Igor finally died.

*****

Ron Weasley listened to his girlfriend explain about a particularly tricky arithmancy equation she had solved. Padma was happy, despite the looming O.W.L.s and the study sessions needed for that. She was happy because she didn’t remember the latest, biggest fight they had had, nor the reason for it. She had been obliviated.

And he was unhappy because he was responsible. Their other friends had volunteered to have the memories of Harry’s vision removed and stored until they had mastered Occlumency. Padma hadn’t been given that chance. Because he hadn’t trusted her to take it.

“... and that means this can be used to analyze wards,” Padma finished, beaming at him.

He forced himself to smile. “That’s great! You’ll get an ‘O’ in Arithmancy for sure!”

“I hope so. Unless the expert poses questions that haven’t been answered yet, to see how we attempt to solve it.” The Ravenclaw witch pouted.

“They do that?” That was the first time he had heard of that. He wondered if Hermione knew about it.

“Sometimes. There was a scandal ten years ago when the problem actually had no solution.” Padma shook her head, frowning. “They fired that expert though, and had the exam redone during the vacation.”

“Pressure from some Wizengamot member?” Ron could see that happen. There were always rumors about parents pulling strings for their children.

Padma shrugged, which did interesting things to her chest, distracting him. “I don’t know. Maybe.” She perked up. “But it’s rather unlikely to be repeated. The current expert hasn’t done this in five years - we’ve got transcripts of all his exams.”

“I see.” No wonder the Ravenclaws were so Ravenclaw - the only Gryffindors Ron knew who prepared for an exam like that were Hermione and Percy. And Hermione’s friends, including himself, of course - she wouldn’t let anyone of them escape.

“Are you done as well? Do you want to take a walk around the lake?” the Indian witch asked with a hopeful expression.

Ron froze. He distinctly remembered the last walk around the lake, the fight, and the Obliviation that had followed. “Ah… I think I better study some more. O.W.L.s are important.” He forced himself to smile at her, and ignore how his girlfriend briefly looked hurt before she nodded in agreement.

*****

The Hogwarts Self-Defense Club’s meetings had been turned into practise sessions for the DADA-O.W.L.s, Pansy Parkinson thought. Instead of students learning how to defend themselves from attacks they were learning how to cast spells needed for the exams. The Slytherin student wasn’t sure if she liked that. Good O.W.L.s were important, but she was quite certain she’d do well on her exam already. On the other hand, Greg and Vincent were profiting, and she usually managed to dump them on someone else for tutoring in those session, freeing her to practise herself. The two lugs were loyal and brave, but trying to teach them something more complicated than cursing someone was often an exercise in frustration. She sometimes wondered how Draco had managed to stand that - or if he had ever tried teaching them anything.

The witch stretched, limbering up for some duelling training. She was one of the few outside Potter’s friends who still trained dodging and shielding, fighting instead of academica. As she bent down to touch her toes with her fingertips, she noticed Weasley watching. Acting as if she hadn’t noticed, she took her time to stretch, making sure he got an eyeful and would realise just how tightly her duelling robes fit her.

He had noticed, she was certain, since he looked away brusquely after staring. And his girlfriend noticed too - the Ravenclaw was glaring at Pansy. The Slytherin acted as if she was oblivious to the attention, until Patil started some spell exercise with Potter’s retainer. As soon as the other witch was busy, Pansy stood up and approached Weasley.

“Mister Weasley? Would you care for a duel? I think I’ve already done all the spell revising I can stomach for today.”

She saw Ron starting to smile - as expected, he was sick of the revising too - then school his features and nod at her. “Alright, Miss Parkinson. Standard rules?”

“Yes.” Pansy looked around for a referee, but Professor Lupin and Mister Black were both occupied observing spell practise.

“Aicha? Would you mind refereeing?” Weasley called out. The Arabian witch nodded, and came over to them, followed by Lovegood. The blonde Ravenclaw smiled widely, rubbing her hands together. “Oh, this should be entertaining!”

Pansy wasn’t certain how to answer that. The eccentric witch was an enigma for her. She seemed to be interested in Granger, but as far as the Slytherin knew, she had never made a move. It wasn’t shyness - Lovegood was known to often be very blunt. But what else would keep her from trying to get what she wanted? Pansy didn’t know. And so she simply nodded with a polite smile, and stepped on the slightly raised dueling platform. The wards that prevented stray spells from leaving the area - if not always successfully - made her skin tingle for a second.

Ron followed her example and faced her, wand raised. He cut a dashing figure in his customized robes. Pansy used the opportunity to ogle him, under the guise of studying her adversary.

Antar clapped her hands together.

“Bow!”

Pansy took a deep bow. She knew she was likely to lose - Weasley was very good with his wand. And he usually went all-out in duels too. Within the rules.

“Wands ready!”

Pansy’s wand moved into the ‘guard’ position.

“Start!”

Pansy dropped to the floor and rolled to the side. Three brightly colored spells flew over her head - as expected, Weasley wasn’t holding back at all. She returned fire with two spells of her own, both missed, but gained her enough time to cast a Shield Charm.

That saved her from Weasley’s next two spells. She conjured a dozen rocks - or at least ten and two pebbles - and banished them at the redheaded wizard. His shield protected him, without shattering like hers had. She wasn’t beaten yet, though. A quick hex filled the dueling platform with smoke while she rolled to the other side, and when a gust of wind dispersed the smoke… she was staring right at the tip of his wand.

“Stupefy! Stupefy!”

Parkinson’s duelling robes absorbed the first spell, but the second, right behind it, took her out.

She woke up - was woken - right afterward, or so she thought. The revising was still going on.

“That was quite good, Parkinson,” Weasley stated, grudgingly.

“Thank you. But not good enough.” Pansy didn’t bother with flattering Weasley, she simply got up and nodded. ”Another round?”

Again Weasley smiled for a second, before his face settled on a neutral expression, and he stepped up to the platform. “Of couse.”

This time Pansy didn’t last as long. But she managed to make her opponent flinch at least. After the fifth round, he kept his smile when talking to her. Pansy hoped that was because she had impressed him somewhat, and not because she had been hit with all sorts of hexes, and was in considerable pain. Patil’s frown pointed to the former, at least.

*****

“Thank you for your help.”

Kenneth Fenbrick smiled at the shop attendant in ‘Quality Quidditch Supplies’. He was just being polite though - as expected, none of the staff of the shop recalled Meadwater-Baker visiting them the day he remembered as having spent broom shopping. As the Auror left the shop, he glanced at the Firebolt on display. Ah, if he could afford one of those! Maybe once the new model came out, and the war had ended...

Outside he looked at his partner, Bertha Limmington. “Polyjuice?”

The witch shrugged. “She wasn’t obliviated, or confunded. We’ll have to go through the list of people who bought a broom here that day, to narrow the possibilities down.”

“Unless they simply imperiused someone to buy the broom for them.” Kenneth wasn’t quite as optimistic as Bertha. Hoping the enemy had made a mistake was a bad habit for an Auror. Even though most criminals made more than one mistake.

“As unlikely as it is to give us a result, we still have to investigate, if only to eliminate it as a lead for the investigation,” Bertha said while they were walking towards the Leaky Cauldron. They were under a privacy spell, but both were wearing their Auror robes - these days, any Auror showing his or her colors in the streets was a good thing for the country’s morale.

“Do we visit each and everyone of them?” Kenneth didn’t whine, even though he felt like it. That would take more than a day.

“No. We’ll check first if anyone on the list recently reported a theft or a break-in. If imperiused, they’ll not be able to withdraw gold from Gringotts, so they will have taken the money from the gold they keep at hand, and that might get noticed quickly - especially in shops,” Bertha explained.

Kenneth hadn’t thought of that. While it was often dangerous to make assumptions, this seemed sound, and wouldn’t delay them much if it didn’t pan out. A brief Floo trip later, they were back in the Ministry, and on their way to the DMLE offices.

*****

“Mister Floxroot? Please have a seat. My name is Kenneth Fenbrick. This is my partner, Bertha Limmington. We’re investigating the theft from your shop.”

Kenneth smiled at Killian Floxroot, the owner of ‘Prized Pets’, a shop in Diagon Alley specializing in exotic animals - magical and muggle ones. A day ago he had reported the theft of a sum of gold from his shop that matched the price for the broom Meadwater-Baker had given his son.

The wizard looked surprised at facing two Aurors. “When I reported the theft yesterday, I was given the impression that it wasn’t a high priority.”

Kenneth didn’t mention that he had heard through the grapevine that Floxroot wasn’t too popular in the DMLE, after a few of his stock - the kind Professor Hagrid would call ‘interesting’ - had escaped and caused trouble in the Alley. “Well, we’re on the job now.”

Bertha drew her wand. “May I quickly check you for signs of memory alterations?”

“Memory… you think I’ve been obliviated?” Floxroot’s eyes widened in shock.

Bertha simply nodded. “Yes.”

“Of… of course.”

Bertha cast several charms, her expression darkening slightly with each spell. Finally she holstered her wand. “Indeed, you have been obliviated. It seems very likely that the thief compelled you to buy a broom with the missing gold, and and then removed the memory of that action.”

Floxroot gaped, then shivered, hunching over. “I’ve been imperiused?”

Kenneth sympathized - to be mind-controlled was one of the worst things that could happen to a wizard. And having to suspect your memories of being false, to be unable to trust your own recollections, was almost as bad. To never know, to always wonder what you had done, had been forced to do…

Bertha nodded. “That’s the most likely spell, yes.”

“Merlin…. who’d do such thing? It’s not as I’ve lost a fortune…”

“Let’s just say you’re lucky to be still alive.” Kenneth smiled at the man, ignoring the glare from his partner. When he saw the man understood what he had just hinted at, he hastily added: “You were used to buy a broom, nothing more, as far as we can tell.” That seemed to reassure the wizard. A bit at least.

“Mister Floxroot, we need your memory for the entire afternoon that is suspect.”

“Of course. Do you think you can restore my missing memories? Remove the fake ones?”

“We can remove the manipulated ones, but restoring obliviated memories is still impossible,” Bertha stated, bluntly and coldly.

Kenneth almost sighed - she was brilliant, but sometimes she missed what impression she left on those who didn’t know her as well as he did. “Do you know how to copy a memory, sir?”

It took ten minutes of coaching, but they got the memory, and the still shaken wizard left their office - presumably to head home, but Kenneth was certain he’d hit a pub first, or buy a bottle or three of Ogden’s Finest.

“Do you think you’ll find anything in the tampered memory?” Kenneth didn’t think the Dark Lord’s agents would have been sloppy enough to miss something. But no one was perfect.

“I hope I can use his and Meadwater-Baker’s memories to find possible witnesses who didn’t have their memories erased, and then get copies of their memories,” Bertha explained while labeling the vial she had stored the memory in.

Clever. Even if the culprit had erased more than just his presence, he couldn’t have erased everyone’s memories. And both in Diagon Alley and in the Ministry, there was a lot of people walking around at any time of the day. A lot… “Merlin! Do you know how long this will take?”

“I’ve reserved the pensieve for a week.”

Kenneth stared at his partner. She was serious. She also had found what was probably their best chance to crack this case and find the agent. “I’ll have forgotten how the real world looks after a week spent in memories!” he grumbled.

Seeing Bertha frown at the way he had just mangled logic was a small consolation for him - he had a very long week ahead.

*****

Hermione Granger stared at the ugly knot of pulsating strands she saw thanks to her spell and shivered. This was it. This was the core of the Dark Mark. This was where Voldemort’s soul was bound to the Death Eater’s. This was _how_ the soul was anchored.

She suppressed the growing but by now familiar nausea, the headache, and the spark of longing, as she analyzed the structure and changing patterns of the entwined strands. Forcing the bile rising in her throat down, she used her wand to very carefully prod the point where the strands disappeared into the flesh beneath. When she pulled it back to study the changes that had caused, she was shivering despite the charms on her robe. It was a warped, yet elegant construct, alluring and repulsive.

The witch finally understood the mark. And if she understood something, she could find a way to destroy it. She already had a hunch how. To tweak that strand there, and cut this one… it was only when her detection spell was suddenly and silently finited that she realised she had her wand pointed at the Dark Mark.

“I think it is time to stop for today, Miss Granger,” the Headmaster stated in a calm voice.

Hermione whipped her head around, staring at the old wizard. She had forgotten his presence. Hadn’t seen him either. All she had seen was the Dark Mark. The Horcrux. Her heart was beating rapidly and she was panting, and if not for her charmed robe, she was certain she’d be soaked in sweat as well. She certainly felt filthy. And her head… “Merlin,” she muttered while rubbing her temples. While she had been focused on her task, she had been able to ignore the pain, but now it was back with a vengeance.

Dumbledore nodded gravely, his wrinkled face showing both concern and understanding.

“Thank you, Headmaster.” Hermione stood up, on slightly shaky legs, and took a few steps back from the body, to lean against the wall. She would have conjured a chair or seat for her, but she’d rather not attempt that in her current state, nor so close to the Horcrux.

The wizard levitated the Death Eater away, over to the cot on the other side of the vault, before turning to her.

“I’m alright, sir,” Hermione pre-empted his question.

He didn’t look like he shared her opinion, and Hermione briefly wondered if she wore the same expression whenever Harry told her he was fine after a rough Quidditch game or training. “Was it worth it, Miss Granger?”

She nodded, slowly.and took deep breaths until she wasn’t in danger of losing the contents of her stomach anymore. “Yes, sir. I know what I’m facing now.”

Dumbledore pursed his lips. “So you do. And you know the temptation of the Dark Arts now, as well.”

“Yes, sir.” Her headache hadn’t abated, and she pulled out a vial and drank it. When her head started to hurt less, she sighed with relief.

“It is a constant temptation. The lure of more knowledge, an easy way to deal with an enemy. Or a danger. Or a problem. Or an inconvenience.”

Hermione looked at the old wizard. He sounded as if he was speaking from personal experience. He probably was, she realised, given his experiences. “I will resist it.”

Dumbledore held her gaze for a few moments longer - she half-expected him to try to read her thoughts - then nodded. “Very well. Do you require further sessions with the mark?”

“One more, I think, to double-check my findings.“ Once she had a concept, she’d have to do some testing too.

“After the O.W.L.s then. I dare say you need a bit more rest after today.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again and nodded reluctantly. As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. She hadn’t felt that weak, that sick, that hungry, before.

She was still shivering when the vault door closed behind them and they made their way back to Dumbledore’s office. Back to Harry.

*****

Albus Dumbledore kept a close eye on the young witch as the two returned to his office. She had stopped trembling halfway there, and had gained some color to her face as well, but she still looked exhausted. She didn’t seem driven though - or at least not as much as he had feared. That was a good sign. He had seen how easy it was to drive oneself to exhaustion and beyond, researching the Dark Arts. Seen, and done it himself, once.

He closed his eyes for an instant, remembering the days of his youth. Gellert. Their plans. Their research. And their mistakes. His fatal mistake. His shame. He saw a lot of his younger self in Miss Granger. More than he liked, if he was honest. A brilliant mind, great ideals, and a ruthless determination. Fortunately, Harry was no Gellert. He wasn’t delving into the Dark Arts with Miss Granger - his connection to Voldemort would make studying the Dark Mark far too dangerous - and he would rather rein her in than spur her on. The boy was an anchor for Miss Granger. He would, hopefully, keep her from falling to the lure of the Dark Arts. And if she did… Harry had the power to control her, in extremis.

Albus was not feeling well himself - studying the horcrux took a toll on him. Both on his body, and his soul. He had done what he could to spare the young witch the same burden, but it hadn’t been enough.

They entered his office, where Harry was reading a book. Albus recognized it at once. “Are you reading ‘Battlefield Control’?” he asked while he sat down and summoned three glasses and one bottle.

”Yes, Headmaster,” the boy answered while Miss Granger hugged him before sitting down next to him. “I thought it might be useful.”

“And was it?” Albus asked, curious. The book was interesting, but more so for the historical information, these days. Some of the ideas could be adapted, of course.

“It seems rather outdated. Neither muggles nor wizards fight in the manner the book describes,” Harry said while passing the book to Miss Granger, who eagerly flipped through the pages.

“It was written before the Statue of Secrecy went into effect.” Albus floated the glasses over to the two students, then filled them with a flick of his wrist. “Back at the time wizards and muggles fought side by side, and their tactics reflected that. After magic was hidden from the rest of the world, warfare changed for both wizards and muggles. Muggles had no longer to worry about spells and magical beasts, but the absence of magic forced them to find other means to compensate too - especially for reconnaissance and commanding. It took them over 200 years to replace broom cavalry and communication mirrors. Wizards meanwhile saw their battles shrink to what would have been considered skirmishes before. Instead of battles involving thousands of men, small groups of highly mobile combattants became the norm.” He had their attention now, though Miss Granger was still glancing at the pages.

“I wonder what would happen if we used muggle weapons in battle,” Harry mused.

Albus smiled. “Not much, I would expect. We are not trained to use them, nor do we have tactics to use them effectively against magical foes. Apart from a few niches they would do more harm than good for quite some time. And the political ramifications...” The old wizard sighed. “It would be a propaganda coup for Tom to see muggle weapons slaying wizards. People would be reminded of the witch-hunts, and getting labeled as a ‘blood traitor’ would change its meaning.”

Harry looked like he wanted to disagree, but nodded, if reluctantly. “Niches?”

“Modern muggle weapons have a far greater range than wands. Used in the right situations, enemies could be caught unaware and unprepared thanks to that. Though they would quickly adapt, and any advantage would be mostly lost,” Albus explained. He missed teaching students, terribly. But he had too much work, too little time to teach classes. Too much responsibility to follow his true passion.

“Such an advantage could be decisive though, if used at the right moment,” Miss Granger said.

The Headmaster nodded at her. She was probably already thinking of acquiring muggle firearms. “Indeed. And should that moment happen, rest assured that we will use them.” He didn’t quite grin at seeing her eyes widen in surprise - she probably didn’t expect him to have thought of that. Just like him, at that age.

The young witch looked at the book again, hiding her expression. Harry chuckled a bit, which earned him a glare. Albus smiled. Young love.

He finished his own glass before addressing more recent matters. “As Miss Granger will be telling you in more detail, we have succeeded in unraveling the defenses of the Dark Mark. While we have not yet found a way to put that knowledge to use, I am confident such applications will follow.”

Miss Granger nodded, exchanging a tired but proud glance with Harry, while Albus refilled his glass with his wand. The liquid formed an amber-colored arc as it rose from the bottle and fell into his glass.

Harry cleared his throat. “I’ve heard a rather surprising rumor. Some people think Voldemort had the Lestranges killed so they would not object to his affair with Bellatrix.”

Albus met the eyes of the young wizard. “In a war, victory can rarely be achieved with your wand alone. In order to win, you need not just to beat your enemy’s wands, but to prevent him from replacing his losses. In a civil war, which is what we are fighting in, the chief means to achieve that is propaganda. If Voldemort is seen as a man willing to have his loyal wands killed because he is going after a married woman, or after their family fortune, then many more traditional families will think twice about allying themselves with the Dark Lord.”

“People actually believe that?” Miss Granger sounded doubtful.

The old wizard smiled. “Wizards and witches generally are more willing to believe fantastic stories, seeing as they are used to fantastic magic.”

The muggleborn witch grumbled something under her breath Albus didn’t catch, but judging by Harry’s frown, it hadn’t been a polite remark. Though the boy had some doubt in his expression as well when he agreed with Albus: “Indeed. Some students have already forgotten Draco’s stance towards muggleborns, just because he was supposedly killed by the Dark Lord.”

Did the boy suspect it had been Albus who had killed them? The Headmaster didn’t let the worry Harry’s words caused show on his face. “It is generally thought more noble to be killed fighting for people than for coin. And the Romans had a saying: De mortui nihil nisi bene.”

“‘Do not speak ill of the dead’,” Miss Granger said. “It’s ironic that one of the biggest bigots is now seen as a hero.” She scoffed. “I hope he knows this in the afterlife, and suffers more for it.”

Harry nodded in agreement. Albus sighed. He hoped the afterlife wouldn’t include suffering for your sins. It was a slim, probably illusionary hope, but it was all he had. He’d find out soon enough, anyway - he wasn’t getting any younger. And there was the war.

“Neville’s grandmother hates the rumor though - she doesn’t want the Dark Lord to be the one who killed those who had tortured her son and his wife.”

Albus understood that. He’d hate it himself, were he in Augusta’s place. But the needs of the war took precedence over the feelings of an old witch. Or an even older wizard. “I do not think this will last overly long.” Once the war was won, he would start clearing up those kind of ‘misunderstandings’.

Miss Granger mumbled something. He looked at her “What did you say, Miss Granger?”

The witch met his eyes, almost defiantly. “The first casualty when war comes, is truth.”

“You are correct, Miss Granger.” She probably suspected him. But she also shared his views, Albus knew. He stood up. “I think it is time for you to head back to your dorms again. Before Minerva starts believing that I am exhausting two of her favorite students shortly before their O.W.L.s.” He gently shooed the two out, then fell back into his seat, his body aching.

He wasn’t getting any younger. And the Dark Arts and their effects were not getting any weaker.

*****

“And those are my friends Valérie, Chantal, Eugénie and Laure d’Aigle,” Sirius Black introduced his girlfriends to the latest guests in his home, a dozen relatives of Viktor who’d be joining the Order in the battle against Voldemort. There were a number of pretty witches among them, which probably had prompted the four French Veela to stand a bit closer to him than usual at such occasions.

Boris Stankoiev, Viktor’s best man, bowed with a flourish in return, and introduced his group. Including his mistress, Bisera Ivanova. A Veela. Sirius had an inkling that things were not going that well when Bisera and his four girlfriends stared at each for a moment. All were smiling, but Sirius knew his lovers well enough to know it was an act.

Trying to defuse the brewing dispute, he gave the new arrivals a tour of the house. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out.

Thirty minutes later, he was treated to a line-by-line recap of the discussion between the Veela and he was getting a bit worried. His shy, gentle Valérie was pacing in his bedroom, her voice changing between its usual timbre and the more inhuman tone of a transformed Veela as she complained about Bisera.

“What does that girl think she is, looking down on me?” She threw her hands in the air, and Sirius imagined small flames sprouting from her fingers while she tried to ape the other Veela’s voice. “‘Oh, you share a wizard? Four of you? ‘ow interesting. My Boris wouldn’t ‘ave the energy to satisfy another woman, much less three. Not after ‘e has satisfied me.’” The French witch sneered. “Stupid Bulgarian flobberworm! Acting as if ‘aving a dull lover without imagination or stamina is a good thing!” Valérie was really mad - among Veela, comparing someone to worms, animals that lived in the earth, was one of the worst insults.

Chantal, who was sitting on an ottoman nearby, long legs draped over another and leaning against a floating pillow, agreed. “She certainly ‘ad an attitude. But I’m more worried about the other Bulgarians.”

Sirius looked at her. “Did they make advances towards you?” If they did...

Chantal looked surprised for a moment, then smiled. “No, not the men. The women. Bulgarians see us as temptresses, trying to ensnare wizards. And they think we’re just fit to be mistresses, not wives. Some of those witches might make moves on you.” Her expression clearly showed that she’d not tolerate that.

“Well, they don’t stand any chance. I’m firmly yours!” Sirius declared, with a grand gesture. “Very firmly,” he added with a wink that had them giggling. They grew more serious quickly though.

Laure, spread out on the left side of his bed, cut in: “It’s getting a bit crowded.”

Sirius shrugged. “Well, we have to host our allies somewhere. And I’d rather have Viktor’s family and friends in my house than some of the mercenaries from the Balkans.” Everyone nodded at that - the things one heard from that particular spot made the Barbary Coast look like a vacation destination.

“As long as they behave!” Valérie said.

Sirius nodded. Had those been flames in her eyes? He patted his lap, and she joined him on his bed, sitting between his legs. He wrapped his arms around her, and the two stayed like that for a while.

Eugénie, sitting next to them, sighed. “At least Fleur and her Beel will be back from France soon.”

Sirius wasn’t certain that was a good thing, given Fleur’s temper and Bill’s looks. And the fact that many of those witches and wizards would be fighting in the war - and everyone knew how randy soldiers were when they were not fighting.

He didn’t say anything though. To think that he once had thought he could never have enough pretty girls in his house! He had even dreamed of having a harem in his youth. If he had managed to forge his father’s signature, back then… he’d had his route to Constantinople planned out already when his parents had found out and stopped him. He had been young and stupid, before Azkaban.

Thinking of that place, that time made him shiver, despite Valérie’s closeness. He didn’t have the urge to change into Padfoot though. Not anymore.

*****

Paige Caldwell wasn’t certain her lot in life had improved. Certainly, she had better quarters now. The best expansion charms, and furniture that was not a finite away from turning into rubble. And food - real food. Meat. Rare, not burned to a crisp.

On the other hand, her company hadn’t improved. Quite the contrary. Many of her new roommates were of the worst lot. Uncultured, barbaric, some were barely above beasts no matter if they were under the full moon. There were even muggles among them!

But it was just a temporary measure, for the war’s duration. Once they had won, things would change. No one would ever tell her where she could live, and how. Never again! She would be free. Free and powerful. It was worth fighting for. Worth killing for. Britain declared her a dark creature? She’d show them how dark she could be!

She told herself that several times a day. Especially after hearing the bragging of those who had been in the Dark Lord’s service for a while. The full moon was close, and she felt the beast in her rise, trying to take control. Urges, animal, violent ones, filled her. She slid her hand into her enchanted pocket, gripping her vial filled with Wolfsbane potion. No matter what anyone else said about the will of magic, nature, or the animal’s spirit, she’d not become a mindless beast!

“Paige?”

The werewolf flinched when she heard the loud voice from the hall. Fenrir Greyback, the leader of Voldemort’s pack, as he called them. The most infamous, most feared werewolf of Britain. His rampages were the stuff of nightmares. Or had been, before she had been cursed herself, and had seen the other side. Her side. It hadn’t taken her long to understand how you could be driven, enraged, enough to rampage. Not after living in Britain as a werewolf.

She also knew that Greyback was as brutal, cunning and powerful as the tales made him out to be. She didn’t know any werewolf who could stand up to him. But that didn’t change the fact that he also was an uncouth brute who stank.

But he was her superior, and she would never get to live in a Britain where she was free if she ignored him. She wouldn’t get to live, period, as one idiot boy had found out a day after she had arrived, when he had insulted the older werewolf. She stood up from the mattress she had been lying on - Greyback claimed beds were for monkeys - and opened the door with her wand. “Yes, Fenrir?” All werewolves were told to use first names, seeing as they were all one pack. Or so Greyback claimed.

“The Dark Lord’s got a mission for you.”

Paige’s eyes widened. “The Dark Lord himself?” she asked, her voice betraying her nervousness.

“You won’t meet him, but the order came straight from him.” Fenrir scowled at her, but didn’t go further - only idiots didn’t fear the Dark Lord, and he wasn’t one.

Paige nodded. “Who else is going on the mission?

Fenrir laughed. “It’s just you, and some witch.”

“What? So close to the full moon?” That didn’t sound like the usual mission for the werewolves. Paige wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

“Yeah. They need a young werewolf who is still civilized. You fit the bill.”

Paige nodded, even though that sounded ominous. Any other answer would have been a bad idea.

Fenrir gave her a small coin. “That’s a portkey. It’ll drop you right at the meeting spot. You’ll be informed there. Do the pack proud. And if the witch is stupid, but not too stupid, bite her.”

The old werewolf was still laughing at his own joke - if he had been joking - when the portkey went off and dropped her in front of a middle-aged, but attractive witch.

*****

Dolores Umbridge saw the beast land on her carpet in a crouch. She wanted to kill the animal, but her orders were clear, and she prefered living to killing such abominations. She kept her wand out, of course. Just in case the monster lost control.

“Hello, Miss…” the animal started to talk.

Dolores cut her off with a gesture of her hand, walking around her. At a safe distance, of course. At least the werewolf wasn’t dressed in rags, and didn’t seem to be too dirty. Maybe she could pull this off. Provided the beast didn’t growl at people like she was doing right then. “Stop that!”

“What?” the animal snarled at her. Dumb and arrogant.

“Growling. Stop it.” She stared at the creature until the werewolf looked away. “You’ll have to pass for a real witch for this mission, you can’t be acting like an animal.”

“What is the mission?” the insolent beast asked with a sneer.

“It’s quite easy. There’s a Wizengamot member, Trevor Fickleton. The Dark Lord wants him bitten by a werewolf tonight.” The animal looked at her, surprise giving way to eagerness as the beast’s bloodlust rose.

“I assume you’ve got a plan to get me to him.”

“Yes. You’ll be posing as my niece. He is very interested in meeting her.”

The nostrils of the thing widened. “Do you mean that he expects me to…”

Dolores narrowed her eyes. “You’ll do what he wants until the moon rises. Understood?” As if any of those animals had a problem with rutting. She should be glad to be allowed to touch a wizard.

The beast growled, showing her teeth. Dolores almost cursed her. “The Dark Lord ordered this. Are you defying him?”

Even the dumb animal wasn’t that dumb, though she was still glaring at Dolores when she lowered her head.

The witch nodded, satisfied. “Good. I’ve gotten a decent robe for you. Put it on.” It was much too good for the beast, but Dolores’s niece would be wearing such a robe. She watched while the werewolf dressed. The Dark Lord had been right. If she hadn’t known about the creature, she might even have been fooled into thinking this was a proper witch.

Trevor wouldn’t suspect anything. He certainly would never expect Dolores to bring a werewolf to him - he knew her too well for that. Or thought he knew her. Thought he owned her. Thought he could reduce her to his concubine without her taking revenge on him.

Dolores snarled. He’d find out just how wrong he was, tonight. When the full moon reached his bedroom and the little whore shed her human skin.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort pondered the report from Umbridge lying on his desk. His plan had worked. Fickleton was now cursed, and just one revelation away from losing everything - his position, his gold, his family. The fool would do anything Voldemort ordered to avoid that fate.

The Dark Lord shook his head as he read the last paragraph on the scroll. Umbridge thought she would get to order the man around. She was almost as big a fool as Fickleton himself - with her reputation her relationship with that wizard, no matter how fake it was, tainted the man’s reputation and therefore reduced his worth for the Dark Lord. The former Ministry employee would have to leave Fickleton. Voldemort had other tasks for her anyway.

He’d inform her later that week about it. In a personal meeting - just in case she didn’t take it well. If she wasn’t willing to obey his orders, he’d find another use for her. Such as Steinberg’s experiments. His gaze fell on the wand on the other side of the desk.

He summoned it into his hand and studied it, once more. It seemed to sing in his hand, daring him, begging him to cast the darkest curses he knew. Promising him that they would be as easy as a first-year’s charm. They would be, he had found that out when he had possessed the boy in the Ministry. But the price the wand demanded… A wizard using such a wand would burn brightly, but quickly, his own body, his life, fueling the wand’s power. The boy he had possessed had been doomed after just one fight with such a wand.

Those wands would have been very useful, had he still a lot of expendable wizards and witches to send into combat. But in the current situation, he couldn’t afford to sacrifice them. Not in a fight, at least.

But if his hunch paid out, he wouldn’t have to sacrifice any of his followers. Voldemort wasn’t a wandmaker, but he was the greatest practitioner of the Dark Arts in the world. He knew more about sacrifices than anyone else. And he knew that smart wizards sacrificed their enemies, not their allies.

A wand that sacrificed its wielder was of limited use. A wand that sacrificed its targets though…

Voldemort was smiling when he left his office in search of Steinberg.

*****


	39. A Dark Day

**Chapter 39: A Dark Day**

“Pensieves should be illegal!” Kenneth Fenbrick declared when he withdrew from the memory of Balthasar Brighton, co-worker of Meadwater-Baker. “They obviously were made with torture in mind!”

His partner, Bertha Limmington, ignored his outburst. “Brighton didn’t spot anyone entering or leaving Meadwater-Baker’s office,” she summed up the latest memory.

“Yes… just like everyone else we saw. Maybe the culprit was invisible.” Kenneth leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He had seen the same scene from far too many eyes during the last few days. They already had found out that the Death Eater who had manipulated Floxwood had used a disguise thanks to the memory of his neighbour, but that wouldn’t have worked in the Ministry, where strangers were not allowed to roam the halls.

“Or he too was obliviated.” Bertha rooted through the dozens of vials containing the memories of Ministry employees they had already watched, then pulled out another. With a flick of her wand she transferred Brighton’s memory into a vial, and put the next one in the pensieve.

“If he was obliviated as well we’d never find them,” Kenneth said. He would hate for the Death Eater to escape. After the last few days the Auror had had, the one responsible deserved to suffer!

“Not necessarily.” Bertha dove into the memory.

Kenneth sighed, then followed her. He found himself watching a corridor inside the Ministry, near the entrance to the offices where Meadwater-Baker had been working. “Whose memory are we watching?”

“Meredith Wilkens’s.”

“Wilkens? She doesn’t even work there. What did she …” Kenneth trailed off when he saw the witch suddenly stumble and drop a stack of parchments. When she cursed and bent down to pick them up, her already daring robe slipped a bit. “Ah. Tripping jinx. A distraction?”

“Yes.” Bertha paused the recording, and pointed at the watch in the background, and a man in thick robes entering the corridor leading to Brighton’s office.

Kenneth narrowed his eyes. That wizard should have shown up in Brighton’s memory. He walked around to look at the wizard’s face. “Macnair.” The butcher.

Bertha nodded.

“How did you know Wilkens was there? And how did you get her memory?” Kenneth knew they had taken the memories of all of Meadwater-Baker’s co-workers, but Wilkens worked in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes - quite far from those offices.

“I heard that she was having an affair with Mackenzie from Broom Regs.” Bertha was checking her watch and making notes inside the pensieve.

“Bertha! You were gossiping? You?” Kenneth stared at her.

His partner glared at him. “I couldn’t exactly ask around officially; that would have tipped the suspect off.”

“Of course.” Kenneth agreed with her even if he was grinning widely - he couldn’t think of anyone less likely to indulge in office gossip than his partner. Including the Unspeakables.

He grew serious as soon as they left the pensieve though. “Do you want to arrest him right away, or simply question him first?”

Bertha cocked her head to the side. “We don’t have enough for a warrant, yet. But he might get spooked if we approach him.”

Kenneth nodded. “He’ll know he’s been made if we start asking questions about the case. And a cornered Death Eater will flee - or fight. Both will confirm his guilt.”

“He might be prepared for such an eventuality though. We’d need backup,” Bertha stated. “And a curse-breaker and a healer. Just in case.”

“Gathering that many might be a bit conspicuous.” Kenneth didn’t think there were too many spies inside the Ministry, but there was always the risk of just one mole at the wrong place.

“We don’t need to involve the Hit-Wizards,” Bertha said. “Aurors should suffice.”

Kenneth nodded. Given the way they were recruiting anyone able to cast a few curses and a shield charm, there were bound to be a few spies among the Hit-Wizards. “Let’s call Bones.”

*****

Walden Macnair was sorting through parchments, trying to reduce the stacks on his cluttered desk. He wished there was an execution scheduled - he hadn’t killed anything this week yet, neither for the Ministry or the Dark Lord. And he hoped he’d get to kill a sentient creature. Butchering animals wasn’t as satisfying as killing those who knew what was happening. Those who begged, cried, and pleaded. Like werewolves. If only muggles could be hunted legally…

His musings were interrupted when someone knocked at the door of his office. “Yes?” He drew his wand, slowly floating a cup of tea over to his desk as a cover.

The door opened, revealing two Aurors. Fenbrick and Limmington. Walden knew about them - both through the Ministry’s grapevine, and from the Dark Lord himself. They were among the DMLE’s best, and had caused a lot of harm to the cause. What were they doing here? They could have some questions about magical creatures, he supposed. But he wasn’t an expert on creatures. Just on killing them.

“Mister Macnair?” the wizard asked.

Walden almost scoffed and asked who else the idiot thought would be in his office, but he controlled himself. “Yes.” He slowed the teacup down a bit more. Let them think he was a weak wizard, struggling with such a charm. Aurors always looked down on anyone else in the Ministry.

Fenbrick smiled and stepped closer to Walden while the witch apparently found the pictures of dead animals on the wall interesting. Fitting for a Ravenclaw. Unless it was an act. That would be more Slytherin. “We’ve got a few questions for you.”

Walden looked at the Auror. “Is this an interrogation?” As soon as the words had left his lips, he knew they had been a mistake. Too confrontational. He needed to act like a friendly fellow Ministry employee, not a suspect.

Fenbrick acted as if he hadn’t noticed the slip. “No, just some questions. We’re investigating the recent break-in at the Department of Mysteries.”

Walden felt as if his blood froze in his veins. They knew… or did they just suspect? Wouldn’t they have arrested him, if they had proof? He had erased all traces of his involvement, hadn’t he? He managed to shrug. “Haven’t heard anything about it but rumours.” The teacup was now simply hovering, halfway to his desk.

“Let me,” the witch said, pulling out her wand.

Walden almost dropped the act and cursed her, but she simply levitated the cup to his desk. Fenbrick had drawn his wand as well, when Walden had been focusing on the witch, and was now acting as if he was peeved at his partner being quicker on the draw. But both were looking at Walden, and they were so far apart, he couldn’t keep both of them in sight.

The executioner had no excuse now to keep his wand ready. The polite thing would be to holster it. But that was what they were counting on. He’d not disarm himself. But if he pointed his wand at one of them, both would curse him, he was certain of that. But … they probably thought he couldn’t do anything.

Fenbrick was the more dangerous of the two. Gryffindor, good with his wand. Not a bookworm like the witch. He smiled at the Auror and said: “Oh, I need sugar as well.” Walden pointed his wand at the shelf to his right, and levitated the drained Erumpent horn there - a souvenir from a raid against a ring of poachers up and towards him.

“Is that…?”

“Oops, I meant the sugar box next to it!” Walden made the horn wobble a bit, then let it drop. While the two Aurors were staring at the falling horn, wands moving to stop it from hitting the floor and detonating, Walden sent a Blasting Curse at Fenbrick and slid off his chair.

His curse hit the wizard in the chest and blew him back, but his robe must have saved him - Walden saw no blood or guts. He couldn’t follow up though, since Limmington was showering him with curses. For a witch with such a cold reputation, she seemed livid. Walden’s desk and chair were ripped apart - Cutting Curses - and his robe had to stop a Bludgeoning Curse that still threw him back against the wall.

Walden retaliated at once. “Avada Kedavra!”

His Killing Curse missed, but the witch had dropped to the ground to dodge, and that gave him an opening. He sprinted to the door, his wand sending another Killing Curse at the Aurors. It hit his desk, and Walden felt elated when it exploded, sending a hailstorm of splinters at his enemies and destroying the hated parchments on it. The slight blue glow told him at least one of them had managed to get a shield up in time.

It didn’t matter. He was at the door, and he only had to turn right and run down the corridor to reach the department’s holding area. He would be able to use his emergency portkey there, where the beasts captured by his department for disposal were transported in.

The door was thrown open before he reached it. Multiple red spells shattered his shield charm and overloaded his robe’s protection. More Aurors! Enraged, he charged them, about to unleash another Killing Curse, but their next spells hit him first.

*****

_“Confringo!”_

_Kenneth hadn’t looked up when he heard the spell, he had tried to jump to the side and cast a shield at the same time, but he had been too slow and Macnair’s Blasting Curse had caught him right in the chest. His robe’s enchantments had saved his life, but it still had felt worse than when he had tried to sneak into Beauxbatons’ carriage at Hogwarts in 6th year, and an Abraxan had kicked him. He had heard and felt his ribs break as he had been thrown back and to the side, landing hard on the floor. Stunned, he hadn’t been able to move, had been at Macnair’s mercy._

_Bertha had saved him, sending curses at the wizard with a fury Kenneth had seldom seen, forcing the other wizard to dodge and shield rather than finish him off. And then…_

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

_The green Killing Curse had flown at them, almost hitting Bertha. His partner had dropped to the ground to dodge, and that had given Macnair the opportunity to sprint to the door. Bertha had been about to intercept him, but..._

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

_Another Killing Curse had flown at them. Kenneth had flattened himself against the floor, his broken ribs causing agonizing pain, but the curse had missed both him and Bertha, and hit the desk, blowing it up. And then Kenneth had been stabbed by a dozen daggers, bleeding like a gutted pig, and Bertha had been rushing and screaming healing spells..._

“What were you thinking?” Amelia Bones asked with a frown, standing at the door of the small room in St. Mungo’s where Kenneth was lying in a bed, interrupting his flashback. “Risking your lives like that?” She wasn’t shouting, but her glare spoke volumes.

“He was much faster than I expected,” Kenneth defended himself. He could hex himself for having fallen for that cheap trick as well. That’s what he got for playing games, instead of charging in.

“Prior experiences left us with misleading conclusions,” Bertha, who had been sitting on a chair next to his bed, added.

“In other words, you didn’t think a spy for the Dark Lord would be dangerous?” Bones raised one eyebrow and glared at them through her monocle.

“The other spies we encountered were not quite as quick,” Kenneth defended himself. Yennington had been slippery, but not as dangerous. Though they hadn’t met him under similar circumstances.

“Macnair has had a lot of experience. We assume he joined the Dark Lord during the last war.” Their boss shook her head even though they couldn’t have known that. But they could have suspected it, Kenneth knew.

“Has he been interrogated yet?” Kenneth asked.

The older witch shook her head. “He hasn’t woken up yet. He was hit by multiple spells. Nothing lethal, but they took no chances after he got past you two.”

Kenneth winced. That scene wouldn’t look that well on his record. Even though without Berhta and him they wouldn’t have found Macnair in the first place, it never looked good when a suspect almost escaped - and almost killed the Aurors trying to arrest him. And in front of witnesses, and in the Ministry itself. Teasing would be the least of his worries.

“The healers claim he’ll be fit to be interrogated tomorrow at the latest,” Bones went on. Kenneth perked up and started to smile, earning him another glare. “You’re stuck here another day.”

“My robe stopped the Blasting Curse!” the Auror protested. He did feel, well, not entirely fine, but well enough to interrogate the scumbag who had failed to kill him.

“It didn’t prevent the busted ribs and the ‘multiple puncture wounds’ you suffered after that. The healers want to keep you here for a bit longer, just to make sure there’s nothing they missed.”

Kenneth looked away. He knew he had been hurt badly - but it had just been wooden splinters, not a dark curse. Nothing St. Mungo’s couldn’t handle.

“Still, excellent work on ferreting out the traitor. The exact means you used will be classified though - we don’t want to let the Dark Lord know how his spy was discovered. Get healed up. If I see you out and about without having been discharged properly, you’ll be healing up during a suspension. That goes for you as well, Limmington,” Bones stated, then left.

Kenneth turned to Bertha. “Were you hurt?” She looked fine, but he had been out for a while. Long enough for others to get healed.

His partner shook her head. “No. I cast a Shield Charm in time. To protect me at least.”

The Auror narrowed his eyes. She sounded off. Was she blaming herself? “You couldn’t have protected me. And it was my fault for being too slow.” Too overconfident.

“I should have protected you. Covered you. I should have known he’d never keep a horn that wasn’t drained of the explosives in his office. And I didn’t.” Bertha wasn’t looking at him, but down.

“I’m still alive, so you did. You saved my life too, from what the healer told me.” Kenneth winced, remembering what he had heard about his wounds, how close he had come to dying.

“You shouldn’t have been hurt in the first place,” Bertha said.

“My plan, my fault. I acted like I was a damn Hit-Wizard and not an Auror.” Though to be honest, he had botched the Hit-Wizard part up as well. He had acted like a damned fool. If Aberforth ever heard about it...

The witch shook her head and stood up. Kenneth blinked. Bertha was taking this really hard. He knew he had to say something before she’d leave, but couldn’t think of anything he hadn’t said yet until his partner had already opened the door.

He opened his mouth, ready to blurt out what he felt, when he heard a blood-curling scream from another part of the hospital.

*****

Walden Macnair wanted to scream, wanted to yell, wanted to spit at the healers and Aurors surrounding him, but he was naked, paralyzed and held by spells, forced to listen to them discuss him as if he was not there, as if he couldn’t hear them, as if he was an animal and not a wizard!

“The subject has recovered from the effects of the spells he was hit with during capture, and I don’t detect any lingering wounds or damages. Not any significant ones, at least,” one wizard in the white robes of the healers from St. Mungo’s commented to the dicta-quill and parchment floating next to him.

“When can we start interrogating him?” an older Auror asked. Walden recognized him. John Dawlish. Not exactly the cream of the crop, despite his experience, but competent enough at sucking up.

“There’s something I want to check out still…” the healer answered, pointing his wand at Walden’s left side.

“The Dark Mark?” Dawlish cocked his head, staring at the arm. Walden felt even more rage filling him, overwhelming him. He struggled harder against the spell binding his body, but he couldn’t move any part other than his eyes.

“Yes. It seems to conceal a spell of sorts. Maybe an enchantment.” The healer bent forward to look at it, and Walden knew that expression - a damned know-it-all, too curious for his and everyone else’s good. That was the Dark Lord’s sacred mark, the symbol of his loyalty, not some ‘interesting phenomena’ or whatever the current slang of the Ravenclaws was!

“That could be dangerous.” Dawlish took a step back. “I’ve heard tales from the last war…”

“Really?” The healer beamed at him. “I’ve called a curse-breaker from Artefact Accidents, but if you could elaborate?” Walden wanted to growl. If he had been free he would have ripped both of them to shreds with his bare hands, a wand was too good for them!

Dawlish shook his head. “It was just rumors… that if you touched the mark, You-Know-Who marked you. That he could hear you through it.”

“Oh… “ The healer showed, at last, the fear Walden’s master deserved, but before he could say anything else, another white-robed wizard arrived, and he smiled again. “Ah, Flowers! I’m glad you found the time to help us out here!”

“Of course I’d come - studying the Dark Mark? That’s an opportunity not many have!” The two nodded at each other, then the curse-breaker greeted Dawlish.

Another eager Ravenclaw! Walden tried to keep the new arrival in his sight, but paralyzed as he was, that was impossible since the man stepped around the cot he was lying on. Walden could still hear him fine though.

“Fascinating… truly fascinating. It looks a bit like a cursed tattoo I had to deal with half a year ago… from Haiti.”

Walden heard a mumbled spell, then he was filled with pain almost as bad as the Dark Lord’s cruciatus. It felt as if dozens of red-hot needles were piercing his skin - and not just on his arm. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t move, but he could feel the excruciating pain. And hear the curse-breaker dictate notes while he tortured him, if he even noticed what he was doing.

“It looks like a hidden enchantment under the mark. Enchanted ink, but something moAAAAAH!”

The pain Walden was suffering didn’t stop, but the curse-breaker was screaming now as well, stumbling back and gripping his wand arm, which was shriveling and turning black in seconds. And then he felt the spells holding him falter, and the pain went away.

The healer and Dawlish, even the two Hit-Wizards guarding Walden, all were staring at the flailing, screaming cursebreaker. No one was paying attention to their prisoner. Not until Walden sat up, the wand the curse-breaker had dropped in his hand, and started casting.

“Confringo!” His shouted incantation was barely audible next to the screams from the dying curse-breaker.

His Blasting Curse hit the healer. The wizard’s robe didn’t seem to offer any protection, and his chest blew up, showering Dawlish and the still screaming curse-breaker with blood and flesh and bone fragments. Walden jumped off the cot and rammed his shoulder into Dawlish, then grabbed the man’s wand arm, jerking him around, while he aimed his wand at the left guard.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The Hit-Wizard collapsed, dead. The other Hit-Wizard was casting, but Dawlish was still standing and served as a shield, his robe’s enchantments stopping several stunners. Walden laughed and jammed his wand into the Auror’s gut.

“Confringo!”

Dawlish gaped and made a gurgling, wheezing noise when the lower half of his body was destroyed. Walden let him drop to the floor, then stepped to the side, dodging another spell from the remaining Hit-Wizard. His enemy looked young and inexperienced. He’d be easy prey.

The Death Eater was already aiming at the last guard when his bare foot stepped on blood and flesh, and he slipped. His spell went wide, and he stumbled against the cot, then against the curse-breaker, whose screams were still droning out anything else.

Unbalanced, he didn’t manage to either shield or dodge the next curses the guard sent at him. He felt the Cutting Curse on his arm and leg, he felt his chest cave in when a Bludgeoning Curse hit him, he felt himself fly back, towards the wall, but he didn’t feel the impact that broke his neck.

*****

“Albus!”

Albus Dumbledore turned towards the floo in his office, and saw the head of Amelia Bones peak out from the green flames.

“Yes, Amelia?” he answered. The witch looked like she was barely holding in her anger. Most would have missed it, but he had known her since she was a first year student.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Certainly. Come on through.” The Headmaster unlocked his Floo connection with a flick of his wand, then sealed it up again as soon as the witch had stepped into his office. He summoned two glasses and a bottle of Ogden’s Finest. “Please have a seat. What happened?”

“The Dark Mark happened.”

“Was there an attack?” He hadn’t heard of any from his contacts, but if it had been recently discovered...

“No. We found a mole in the Ministry, the one who had arranged for the Dark Lord to possess that boy. It was Walden Macnair. The executioner. We arrested him, but during his treatment at St. Mungo’s some idiot curse-breaker took a shot at unraveling his mark.”

Albus winced. He knew very well just what exactly could happen when the Dark Mark’s protection was triggered. He wasn’t too surprised about the identity of the spy - in hindsight, Macnair fit the profile of a Death Eater very well.

Amelia didn’t miss his expression. “You knew about the danger.”

“Yes I did. I did not expect anyone to try and break the curses on it though.” In truth, he had considered the possibility, but warning the Ministry about the dangers of tampering with the Dark Lord’s mark would have warned the moles working for Voldemort about his own research.

Amelia scoffed. “The curse-breaker got cursed. His screams distracted the healer, guards and the Auror present, which allowed the Death Eater to grab a wand and attack them.”

“Was he not restrained?”

“He was. The spells failed when the mark’s curse triggered. At least that’s the most plausible explanation.”

Albus nodded. That would make sense. Some of the curses he had broken might have had such an effect. Maybe they overrode the less harmful effect… he focused on the matter at hand again. “Muggle means of restraining might be needed then, for the next captured Death Eater,” the Headmaster commented while making a note to do so as well with his own captive.

“I’ve already given orders to that effect. Macnair killed the healer who had been treating the wounds he had suffered during the arrest, then killed one of the guards and John Dawlish before the remaining guard killed him.” Amelia emptied her glass and refilled it. “The curse-breaker died an hour later. His arm shriveled and rotted, and no one could help him. Even amputating it didn’t stop the curse.”

Albus nodded. He didn’t ask if the guard would have been able to stun Macnair instead of killing him. Hit-wizards were not Aurors, and the current corps was focused on fighting a war, not capturing criminals.

“Why didn’t you warn us?” Amelia’s eyes bore into his.

He briefly considered lying, but decided against it. She deserved to know the truth, even if it would be a burden for the witch. “If I had, the Dark Lord’s spies would have informed him that I was researching his mark.”

Amelia narrowed her eyes. “You sacrificed four people for that?”

“I did not expect anyone but the Unspeakables to try to unravel the Dark Mark.”

“Did you warn them?”

“They would have known the risks.”

Amelia’s lips formed a thin line and he could see how she fought to control her temper. “Damn you!”

He sighed. “I am sorry about the deaths, but even without a warning they should have known better than to risk the Dark Lord’s curse.”

She stared at him, then closed her eyes. “You’ve got a plan for that mark.”

“Yes.” A different plan that she might imagine, but a plan nonetheless.

“I hope for you that it is worth four lives.” She downed the whiskey, then burped flame.

“So do I, Amelia.” He smiled ruefully. It was more important - it was the most promising way to stop the Dark Lord, and with him the war - and the curse-breaker and the Auror should have known better, but that didn’t change how guilty he felt.

“I trust you’ve arranged for someone to continue your plan, should anything happen to you.” Amelia sniped.

“Yes.” Miss Granger would continue her work, and he had prepared a note for his brother. Just in case Tom proved to be more than his match.

Amelia refilled her glass again and raised it in a mocking toast. “To bloody wars and sacrifices, and to damned leaders!”

He simply raised his glass in response. There was nothing else to say when he agreed with her judgement.

*****

Standing in the hall serving as his throne room until he conquered the Ministry, the Dark Lord Voldemort looked at the latest wands Steinberg had crafted. The Prussian wizard stood behind the floating tray on which his work was presented, looking eager.

“I implemented your suggestions, my lord. They will perform admirably.” He didn’t show any sign of nervousness.

Voldemort glanced at the wandmaker and the other wizard flinched. Those hadn’t been mere suggestions; the Dark Lord had provided the Prussian with detailed instructions and information about the Dark Arts so he could refine his wands and correct their main flaw, the price they made the wielder pay.

“I mean, your plans, my lord,” the wizard hastily corrected himself.

Voldemort smiled, then studied the wands again. The enchantments looked like they should. He picked one up, ignoring how Bella tensed up. They felt right too.

“They have been tested,” he said, looking at Steinberg.

“They have, but not as extensively as I wanted.” The Prussian scowled.

Voldemort ignored his wandmaker’s expression. To test the wands properly, at least according to Steinberg’s standards, he would have had to provide far more test subjects than he had access to. The Ministry’s efforts had made it harder to procure sacrifices, even if one stuck to muggles no one would miss. He was already slowly culling his werewolf recruits for his research; he couldn’t afford to lose more wizards.

Therefore the only way to test the wands was an actual battle. It would ruin the surprise somewhat, but it was better than to hold them back only to find a fatal flaw during a crucial mission.

“Craft three dozen more of them. I need them by the end of June.”

Steinberg, unfamiliar with Britain, simply nodded, even though the order meant he’d have to work hard for weeks. Bella though let slip a gasp.

“Leave us!” Voldemort ordered, and the wandmaker left, the floating tray trailing after him.

As soon as the door had closed behind the Prussian, Bella turned towards the Dark Lord. “Master, the end of June. Does that mean… ?”

He nodded at her. “Yes.” Of course she would know what happened at the end of June. Everyone in Britain did.

She smiled widely, licking her lips. “May I…”

He gently shook his head. “Not you, my love.”

She looked away, pouting, until he gripped her chin and made her look at him. “I will not risk you for a mere test. You are not expendable.”

She shivered, biting her lower lip until it bled as she struggled with herself, then nodded, as he had known she would.

He could taste her blood when he kissed her.

*****

Paige Caldwell left the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her and held up with a Sticking Charm. Despite spending half an hour in the bathtub she still didn’t feel clean. If the bigot hadn’t been sitting in the main room of the apartment they were sharing she’d have cursed, or hit something to vent her anger. But she wouldn’t show any weakness in front of that witch.

Walking towards her own room, she caught Umbridge’s sneer. The werewolf had to struggle not to attack the woman. It would feel so good to curse her, hit her, choke and strangle her. Smash that pretty face, break her classic nose. Paige was certain the witch would lose her arrogance before she lost her life. The only thing holding her back were the Dark Lord’s orders. She didn’t dare disobey them, even though Umbridge was responsible for her current situation. She smiled at the witch, even smirked - with an effort. The werewolf wasn’t happy, not at all.

Paige had joined the Dark Lord’s forces to fight for a better Britain. To crush their enemies. She hadn’t joined to whore herself out to blackmail influential wizards. That had been Umbridge’s idea. The filthy slut.

The werewolf entered her room and swept her wand in an arc to close the door. A silence spell followed, before she screamed in frustration and hit the armoire standing in the corner until the doors cracked and her knuckles were torn and bleeding. She felt better, and yet still almost as bad as right before the full moon. If only she could attack someone. Anyone.

She sat down on the floor and leaned back against the wall. She had to calm down. She had to control herself. This was just a temporary ordeal. Sooner or later this would end, and she’d be fighting the Ministry’s lackeys. Then she’d be able to vent all her rage on them.

*****

Dolores Umbridge looked up from the Witch Weekly magazine she was reading - even a beautiful witch such as her had to stay informed of the latest trends, especially given her current… assignment - when the beast returned from the room serving as its lair. Instead of cursing the animal, as she wanted and as it deserved, she sneered at the werewolf. It was all its fault. If there were no werewolves Dolores would be blackmailing her way back to power instead of seducing wizards like a common whore just to get them bitten by the cursed monster.

And she wouldn’t be living together with the beast just so their cover would hold up better. If she had known what would happen she’d have never let that animal pose as a relative of hers.

The beast sat down at their table, across from Dolores, and summoned a meal from the kitchen as if it was a proper witch, and not a dark creature pretending to be human. She watched, disgusted and fascinated at the same time, as it ate, wondering if it would drop the act and simply feed like a dog. It didn’t. It even cleaned the dishes and sent them back to their proper place in the kitchen. Passable manners. Apparently, Dolores was a better teacher than she had thought.

She caught the werewolf staring at her, and stared back. She knew she couldn’t appear weak to an animal, or it wouldn’t obey her. For a while, both were staring at each other, neither one flinching or backing down.

“Rees ap Evan has sent an invitation,” Dolores said, enjoying the way the beast flinched at the mentioning of Dolores’s latest target. The Welsh wizard was the heir of Evan ap Thomas, an aging but still powerful Wizengamot member who was delegating most of his work to the younger man these days.

“When does he expect us?” The werewolf was trembling slightly.

“Tomorrow evening. It’s a private invitation.” Dolores smiled when she saw the monster twitch. “Dress up nicely, I don’t want anyone to think my ‘cousin’ couldn’t afford proper clothes.”

“The lech will rip them off or vanish them anyway.” The werewolf was now sulking. Dolores felt a bit better.

“I’m certain you’ll be able to protect your robe,” she said with a sweet smile. “Just shed it quickly. Otherwise you’ll have to repair or replace it yourself.”

“You’re just mad that you’re not invited.”

Dolores laughed at that, even though she wanted to curse the stupid beast for presuming she would ever be jealous of an animal. “He prefers his girls dumb and meek. I’m too smart and powerful for him.” Her sneer added ‘unlike you’ as clearly as if she had shouted it.

The monster growled at her and stood up - it had understood the insult. “Whore!”

“Beast!” She had stood up as well.

Both had their wands drawn and aimed, but neither pushed further. The Dark Lord had made it extremely clear what would happen to them should their animosity cause them to fail him.  
The witch just hoped the monster wouldn’t lose what self-control it had, and forget.

*****

Harry Potter leaned back in his seat and watched the countryside as the Hogwarts Express traveled towards London. His fifth year at Hogwarts was over. He had taken his O.W.L.s, and unlike Hermione, he didn’t doubt that he had done well. Two months of vacation with his family awaited him. First in London, for Grimmauld Place and the Dursleys. Then the Caribbean, for the meeting with the Grangers, followed by Bulgaria, for the wedding. Probably France as well, for the beaches with Veela, at least according to Sirius.

He glanced at Hermione, who was sitting next to him, fast asleep. The witch had been pushing herself far too much in the last term. Researching the Dark Mark, training self-defense, and studying excessively for the O.W.L.s. If he hadn’t stepped in she’d have burned herself out. Or worse. Or she would have been cursed by their friends, for trying to make them burn out. Well, some of them - Ron hadn’t complained as much as Harry had expected, probably due to having a Ravenclaw girlfriend. Padma, of course, had jumped at the chance to study with the brightest witch of her age. And Neville… well, he had endured.

“I wonder if we’re going to be as exhausted after our own exams, next year,” Luna said, looking at the sleeping or at least resting students in their compartment.

“It wasn’t the O.W.L.s, it was the parties after them.” Ginny snorted, shaking her head as she looked at her brother, sprawled out on an expanded seat with Crookshanks sleeping on his chest, next to Padma’s head.

“Parties? It looked more like one very long party that only ended when the time to board the train came,” Aicha commented. “And judging by some compartments we passed, it hasn’t yet ended for everyone.”

“Well, it is a monumental moment in their lives. They have passed from childhood to not-quite-adulthood!” Luna declared, nodding several times to her own words.

Harry blinked. “Not-quite-adulthood?”

“You’re having sex now!” Luna beamed at him while Ginny rolled her eyes and Aicha frowned at her friend. “Though you’re not having sex right now, unless what we are seeing is just a very convincing illusion and Hermione’s actually not asleep, but busy…” An elbow from Aicha ended that sentence.

Harry sighed. He should have known better than to ask the blonde. “We’re not having sex while hiding under an illusion.”

“Are you sure? Maybe Hermione would like that. Did you ask her?”

“Luna!” Another elbow hit the Ravenclaw witch from the other side, where Ginny was sitting.

“Are you going on an expedition with your father during the summer?” Harry tried to change the topic. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed talking about sex - well, not that much, not after two years with Sirius and Nymphadora teasing him whenever possible - but he didn’t want to discuss his sex life with his friends. Such as he had one, of course.

While Luna happily started to tell them about her plans for the summer involving Snorkack hunting in Sweden or Switzerland, Harry glanced at Hermione again. A lock of her hair had fallen over her face and was moving each time she breathed. He gently brushed it back behind her ear. His love life only concerned two people - himself, and his girlfriend. Though he doubted the Grangers or Sirius shared his opinion. Hermione though did.

Before he could ask Luna which country she was headed to, the train suddenly shook violently, throwing them all off their seats. The sounds of warping metal followed, and Harry realised with horror that they had been derailed.

*****

Hermione Granger woke up right before she was thrown into the ceiling of their train compartment. If not for the Cushioning Charms built into the train - never having been needed according to Hogwarts: A History - she’d been hurt seriously. Even with them her robe’s protection were triggered since all inside their compartment were thrown around like crash dummies for several horrible seconds until the train finally stopped moving. Someone was lying on top of her, blocking her view of most the compartment and weighing her down.

“What happened?” she heard Ron ask. “Where are we?”

“Train wreck. Get up!” Harry! He was alright! Hermione turned her head and saw her boyfriend pushing a trunk that had fallen on him away. He was peering out of the window.

“Train wreck? How… Voldemort!” Ron cursed as he got up himself, joining Harry.

Her friend was right, Hermione thought, the only reason for the Hogwarts Express suffering a derailment was sabotage - an attack! The young witch levitated whoever was lying on her away - it was Padma, she saw afterwards - and checked the door to their compartment.

Thanks to the dozens of protective spells on the train, the windows hadn’t broken and the doors hadn’t jammed. But the students had to be panicking, even if this was just an accident and not…

She heard an explosion, and the train shook again. It was an attack!

“Death Eaters outside, attacking!” Harry shouted. “The guards are engaging them, but it doesn’t look good.”

Padma started to scream. Hermione cast a silencing spell on the witch. They couldn’t afford to panic right now. Fortunately, the privacy spells she’d cast on their compartment were still working as well, so they couldn’t hear the rest of the students screaming. That would have been distracting, at the least.

“We have to get out of here. I’ve alarmed Sirius already. Grab the portkey!” Harry yelled, throwing the end of a rope to her. Hermione caught it, waited until everyone was touching it - Ron grabbed Padma’s hand and held it to the rope - and then activated it. Nothing happened. As she had expected.

“We had to try. Brooms it is then!” Harry decided. He pulled his shrunken Firebolt from his pocket. Ron followed his example, as did Hermione. Ever since their return from Bulgaria last year she had been carrying a broom of her own with her just for such a situation, courtesy of Sirius. Before she could check if the others were prepared as well though another explosion, rocked the entire train. Then another one followed, much closer.

“Shields!” Hermione yelled, casting one of her own and moving to cover Harry, who was jumping back, away from the window with Ron.

Then the window blew up, and once again Hermione and her friends were thrown around like rag dolls.

*****

“Merlin’s rotting underwear!” Ron Weasley cursed while he got back on his feat and summoned his fortunately still shrunken broom back to his hand. That had been a close call. If his Shield Charm had been a bit weaker, his robes a bit cheaper, then he’d be gravely wounded, or worse. As it was, he felt as if he had been his brothers’ target for beater practise - his robe’s protections had done what they could, but something had gone through.

He and Harry had shielded the others though. And both of them were already facing the hole that was left of their compartment’s window. A second later Hermione joined them. With the train wrecked for good, the privacy spells had gone as well, and they could hear screaming from all sides. Screaming and yelling, and explosions. He saw one student on a broom take to the skies, only to drop down screaming, and aflame a second later.

“They’ll be waiting for people trying to escape!” Ron yelled. The Death Eaters had flyers up.

“We can’t stay in here. The train won’t stand up to those spells!” Harry started to move towards the window. Before he reached it though another spell hit that area, and the remains of the window and wagon started to smoke and melt.

“Don’t touch it! It’s an acid curse, but I don’t know what kind!” Hermione yelled. As if anyone was daft enough to touch it!

“Help has to be underway. We only need to hold out a few minutes,” Harry said.

“But the attack… those spells… if Voldemort himself is out there…” Hermione didn’t finish. Ron knew what she meant. What the Dark Lord’s presence would mean.

“Let’s get out on the other side!” Ron said, then looked back. Padma was still silenced and still trying to scream. Neville was already opening the door - or vanishing the remains. And the other girls were helping, even though the usually unflappable Aicha looked shaken and Luna looked scared. Ginny looked mad enough to use dark spells.

They would have to climb over wrecked parts and piled up luggage, but they should reach the window on the other side, Ron thought. If no one was waiting to blow that and them up as soon as they opened it, of course.

A loud yell made him whip around. Through the hole in their compartment he saw a broom rider approach, casting curses at the train. A Death Eater! And judging by the speed of his casting, a veteran one!

For a moment, Ron was frozen. A Death Eater, probably inner circle too. What could they, what could he, do against such a foe? Then he snarled and sent a Cutting Curse at the broom. To his surprise he hit it, wrecking the broom’s balance and steering. The rider’s loud yells turned into screams as he plowed down into the field like a seeker who had fallen for a Wronski feint.

“There’s dozens of them out there, and they’re wiping the floor with the Aurors!” Harry yelled, moving towards the window side again.

“Wait! Don’t touch the acid!” Hermione yelled again, then cast a spell Ron didn’t recognize. A clear liquid splashed all over the remains of the wall, and the wreckage stopped smoking. Another spell turned a piece of metal jutting out of the mess into a mouse. Ron blinked.

“I’ve neutralized the acid. And the mouse shows it worked!” his best friend explained.

Ron nodded. “Next time, use a rat!” he shouted, joining Harry. Hermione followed.

The broom rider he had caused to crash was getting up. Obviously wounded, but not out of the fight. Ron hesitated for a fraction of a second, then pointed his wand at the wizard.

“Confringo!”

Harry and Hermione cast as well, three spells hitting the wizard or the ground he was standing on. Before the smoke and dust thrown up by the explosions had cleared, they had sent three more curses at the area. All that was left of their target were pieces.

Ron had to fight down a sudden bout of nausea at the sight, but he recovered quickly - the Death Eater scum had tried to kill him and his friends and family. Probably had killed a number of students. Children.

“To the right!” Harry yelled.

Ron turned his head and saw a Death Eater cursing a wounded Hit-Wizard. So that’s what an Entrail-Expelling Curse looked like, the Gryffindor thought. He didn’t have any regret killing that Death Eater with a Piercing Curse and Cutting Curse.

Then he glanced back. His friends and his sister hadn’t left the compartment yet. Neville met his eyes, then shook his head. It had to be too dangerous to move away. They were stuck, cornered. Like rats.

“Where are the Aurors? Where is Dumbledore?” Ron spat out, aiming at another enemy.

*****

Hermione Granger ducked her head as another dark curse flew over her. Part of her noticed that it made no sense - the Death Eaters attacking the train were using dark spells with an ease and speed she envied, but their aim was terrible. Not that she should be complaining about that.

The young witch didn’t know how long they had been fighting, but it couldn’t have been for more than a few minutes, or help would have arrived already. She had used the time well though - thick stone walls surrounded the remains of their compartment, protecting them and their friends but leaving some slits to look out and cast through. They were somewhat safe. Safer, at least, than the guards that had been on the train - most of the Hit-Wizards out there were dead or dying, she assumed, given the volume of curses sent at the train, and at them, and that she couldn’t see many who were still moving.

“They should have retreated already!” Ron yelled while he blew up a small mound of earth a bit away, just in case it might have served as cover for an attacker. “If they stay any longer, they’ll be caught in a pincer by Ministry reinforcements!”

Hermione knew he was right - that was how raids were conducted - but the Death Eaters didn’t seem to share his opinion. Were they actually trying to stand and face whatever the Ministry sent at them? Was this the decisive battle some journalists and students were talking about? But why here, and why now? Was it about Harry? They wouldn’t get him, over her dead body!

She reinforced the wall on the left side, where Luna and Aicha were crouching, trembling, but with their wands ready in case anyone got close. Each curse that hit her walls weakened them, and if they were shattered…

She spotted another attacker trying to climb over the warped roof of the train to their side. With a snarl, she transfigured the wall beneath him into spikes, then vanished the roof he was standing on. The man fell down onto the spikes and started screaming. Not for long - Ginny popped up from behind her position and silenced him with a Cutting Curse to the neck.

Hermione couldn’t help but thinking that Voldemort’s possession of the girl had not faded as much as Ron had claimed or hoped. Although they could use her right now, since the expected help still had not arrived. Where was Dumbledore?

She briefly checked if Padma was still safe in the middle of their spot. She would have stunned the witch, had the Ravenclaw not recovered her wits enough to at least be able to hide and keep silent.

*****

Pansy Parkinson didn’t know what exactly had happened. All she knew was that she had to get out of this trainwreck, get to safety. Around her the students were panicking. Screaming, yelling and trampling over each other as they tried to flee the train. Those that could still move, at least - she had seen one student, a Ravenclaw sixth year, die, her heart ripped out of her chest by some dark curse while trying to climb through a window.

She wouldn’t die like that witch, Pansy swore. “Greg, Vincent! With me, we’re getting out!”

Her two fellow Slytherins followed her. Pansy wasn’t certain if they were too slow to panic, or simply too used to obey orders, but she wasn’t complaining either way.

“Where are we going?” Greg asked, pushing a screaming second year student out of their way.

“We need a distraction so we can leave the train without getting cursed!” Pansy yelled over the screaming and crying.

“Fireworks!” Vincent grunted.

“You have some?” The boys were quite fond of anything that was loud and blew up, Pansy knew that.

“Weasley!” Vincent pointed at the rear of the train, where the loud explosions they heard were not coming from Blasting Curses, as Pansy realised. And where thick smoke obscured the area.

Just what they needed. “Let’s go!”

They made their way to the rear of the train, over and through other students when needed. More were following them though, Pansy noticed. Probably thought she had a good plan, and was not simply improvising and hoping for the best. If she was not scared shitless, she’d have laughed loud.

“Parkinson! Help!”

She knew that voice. Pansy whipped her head around and saw Greengrass standing in the wreckage of a compartment. The Slytherin witch’s robes were torn, but she looked unharmed. Idiots had all the luck, Pansy thought.

“Tracey is hurt!” Greengrass yelled, tears in her eyes. “I can’t help her!”

For a second, Pansy was tempted to sneer at the twit and go on. But she was a fellow Slytherin. And Davis wasn’t that bad. And the witch would owe her. “Greg!”

The burly wizard nodded and climbed inside the compartment, Greengrass giving way. He returned in seconds, a blood-covered body thrown over his shoulder. Davis. The witch was still breathing, but also bleeding, Pansy noticed. A quick Episkey stopped the bleeding, somewhat, but she couldn’t do anything else. She almost told Greg to float her instead of carrying her, but the girl would be safer over the wizard’s shoulders. Less likely to be dropped too.

“Let’s go!”

They pushed on, towards the end of the train. “Ok… we’ll go out, then left, towards the forest.” Pansy remembered that there had been a forest on the other side of the train. She didn’t wait for the others to acknowledge her plan, but got out first.

Her eyes and throat started to hurt as soon as she entered the thick smoke and started to run. She didn’t care. She had to escape!

She stumbled several times, and fell down once, the field was littered with debris from the train and transfigurations, but Vincent simply pulled her up with one hand. He was at her side when they got out of the smoke, close to the edge of the forest.

Closer to a Death Eater too. “We’re Slytherins!” Pansy yelled, hoping the man would let them pass. He just laughed though, like a hyena, and pointed his wand at her.

When the glowing curse flew towards her, Pansy froze.

*****


	40. Breaking and Recovering

**Chapter 40: Breaking and Recovering**

“Where is Dumbledore?” Harry Potter asked loudly, for the umpteenth time. The conjured shelter he and his friends were hiding in was slowly giving way under the assault from what had to be half a dozen dark wizards, despite Hermione’s best efforts to reinforce the walls. And she had had to neutralize those acid spells twice already.

“I don’t know! Even with the anti-apparition jinxes up, help should have arrived by now!” Ron said. “Confringo!” Harry’s friend grinned. “Got one. Not dead, but should be hurt.”

Harry nodded, then sent a Blasting Curse of his own at the earth wall protecting one attacker.

“We can’t keep this up much longer,” Hermione said while she crawled over towards Harry’s position. His girlfriend was looking exhausted, but determined.

“We don’t exactly have a choice!” Ron said, using a conjured mirror to keep an eye on their enemies without exposing himself. “We’re surrounded!”

Harry glanced back, where Neville was sitting, left arm in a sling stuck to his robe. Ginny had taken over for him guarding their rear after his shield and robe hadn’t managed to completely stop the debris from two exploding walls. Padma was lying next to him. Ron’s girlfriend had been hurt as well, if not as badly, but the Ravenclaw was in shock, according to Hermione.

Harry focused on their situation again. Ron was right - the attackers had destroyed the car around them, denying them more cover, but at the same time, making it much harder for the dark wizards to reach their shelter. The young wizard hoped the other students who had been in the car had managed to flee. He didn’t think many had, though.

Aicha was cradling her genie in her hands. The little thing had been hurt as well from exploding debris trying to find a way out - or trying to get help. Both the Arabian witch and Luna were looking more grim than Harry had seen them. Angry too, but more afraid, he guessed.

“We can’t stay!” Hermione exclaimed, looking from one slab of conjured wall to the next, ready to repair and reinforce or replace them.

“And we can’t run. They’ve got Anti-Disillusion Jinxes up as well!” Ron ground his teeth. “We’ll have to chance the brooms.”

“Not everyone can fly.” Harry nodded at their two wounded. They’d never be able to ride a broom in their state. Ron opened his mouth, but he cut his friends off. “And if we double up, then we’ll be too slow to evade their spells.”

Ron closed his eyes and balled his fists. “Damn!”

Hermione didn’t call him on his cursing, and if that wasn’t a sign of just how desperate their situation was, then Harry didn’t know what was. He looked at his girlfriend. She could fly a broom, well enough at least. He could order her to get his broom and his cloak, and escape.

Hermione looked up from where she was reinforcing their left wall, and shook her head at him. Her lips moved, and while he didn’t hear her words, he knew what she was saying: “I’m not leaving you.”

*****

Before Pansy Parkinson could scream, much less try to dodge, Vincent was there, in front of her, his shield charm up and his wand pointed at the attacker. “Stu…”

Behind Vincent’s hulking body, Pansy hoped for a moment that the spell had missed him. But then he stopped casting, staggered, and when he slowly turned around already falling, she saw that his chest had been ripped open. His lips moved, but nothing but blood came out, and his eyes sought hers while he fell. For one horrible fraction of a second she clearly saw the broken remains of his ribs framing the hole in his body where his heart had been, then he hit the ground, and Pansy was facing his murderer again.

Screaming, she jumped desperately to the side, and the laughing, cackling murderer’s next spell went wide, disappearing into the smoke behind her. She didn’t know what kind of curse that had been, but it had gone through Vincent’s shield without shattering it. Her own wouldn’t protect her. She had to get away before she was killed herself!

The edge of the forest was close, but she couldn’t turn her back to that maniac, or he’d kill her from behind. He was tracking her with his wand, a wide grin on his face. And Greg was behind her, somewhere, with Greengrass and Davis. Unless they had become lost in the smoke. A spell flew towards her, just when she was stumbling over a root or rock. The spell hit the ground in front of her, covering it in a fine mist - that quickly started to eat away at the soil. Screaming once more, she scrambled back. Another spell splashed down behind her.

He was playing with her, she realised. Suddenly enraged, she sent a Bone-Breaking Curse at him. His shield stopped it, and he laughed louder, his next spell cutting her off from the forest. She whirled around, facing him, and aimed at the ground in front of him.

“Reducto!”

Her spell blew a small crater into the ground, showering the man with clumps of earth and rocks, and hiding him behind a cloud of dust. For a moment, she felt hope, and started to run around the acid pools his spells had left. Then she heard him laugh again.

He hadn’t been fazed by her spell. His dirty robe wasn’t even torn, his Shield Charm still up. He stared at her, licking his lips, and waved his wand, almost mockingly.

Then the murderer disappeared under a half-giant that had dropped from the sky, right on him, driving him into the ground and breaking his body. The bastard wasn’t laughing anymore, but screaming - until the fist of Professor Hagrid smashed into his head and shattered his skull.

“Are ye alright, Miss?”

Pansy stared at the man’s fist, dripping blood and something else.

“Miss Parkinson?”

Shaken, she nodded. “Y-yes… but Vince… Crabbe…” She pointed at his body, 20 yards away.

The professor took a look and growled. “Basterds!” When turned back to her he was smiling though. “Grab this!” He put a coin into her hand, which closed around it reflexively. “Run inna forest, it’ll portkey ye ta St. Mungo’s!”

With that, the huge teacher turned around, drawing his oversized wand, and ran towards the train. Pansy stared after him. Where had he come from? Looking up, she saw two dozen brooms, and something she didn’t recognize. It looked muggle though.

She would have stared for longer, but then she saw Greg stumble out of the smoke, coughing and wheezing - he never had learned to cast the Bubble-Head Charm, she knew. “Over here!” she shouted, waving, while more explosions went off further away, the broom riders swept down at the Death Eaters, spells flying from their wands. “I’ve got a portkey!”

*****

Sirius Black yelled in triumph when his Bludgeoning Curse hit the flying Death Eater in front of him straight in the head. The dark wizard was thrown back, and started to descend towards the ground in an uncontrolled spin. He hadn’t been thrown off his broom though - probably the result of a sticking spell.

It didn’t help the Death Eater - Valérie hit him with two fireballs before he could recover either his wits or his control of his broom. The transformed Veela screeched and banked to the left, following Sirius. Remus and Chantal were in a wild dogfight - a very fitting description for the aerial combat, even if it was a muggle expression meant for planes - a bit to his right, and Eugénie and Laure were already bombarding Death Eaters on the ground. Remus was fighting much more aggressively than usual, due to the full moon being so close, and the situation seemed under control.

Sirius didn’t see any other broom riding Death Eaters around, though they might have disillusioned themselves and fled. Or the other way around, given the Anti-Disillusionment Jinxes covering the area. Sirius didn’t care. His godson was down there, facing dark wizards who wanted to kill him! He didn’t want to even consider the possibility that he had been killed. Harry had to be alive!

Snarling, he dove towards the ground, his wand sending curses at a dark-robed and masked wizard sprinting towards a broken car. He didn’t hit the man, but he forced him to seek cover behind a rock, allowing Valérie to swoop down from behind and fry the bastard. The Veela screeched again, then screamed with pain when a curse clipped her wing. Trailing feathers, she started to fall, but Sirius was already there, catching her, then weaving around half a dozen more curses until they had gained enough altitude to be safe - relatively.

He glanced at her wing, which was smoking and sizzling, feathers turning black and dropping. For a horrible second, he was torn between helping her and Harry, then he started towards where Bill had been dropped. Harry might be in danger, but might be safe as well - Valérie though needed a Curse-Breaker now!

*****

Hermione Granger was panting, struggling to keep casting, keep reinforcing the walls and roof protecting Harry, herself and their friends from the curses of the Death Eaters attacking them. Fortunately, the attackers lacked imagination, stubbornly trying to break down the stone and earth walls she was conjuring and transfiguring, instead of using more indirect means of attacking. If she had been in their place…

She shook her head, wearily. She had to focus, she couldn’t let her mind wander. Harry needed her. Another wall shattered to her left. She didn’t bother ducking - the earth she had conjured behind that wall absorbed the splinters and debris. If she had thought of that right away, then Neville wouldn’t have… She ground her teeth, burying her guilt, pointed her wand and raised another wall in place of the destroyed one. The first spells started hitting it before she even had finished packing earth behind it.

They couldn’t stay. They wouldn’t hold out for much longer. She knew it, Ron knew it, Harry knew it. But there was no way out - not even on brooms. It was a veritable siege… a siege!

“Luna! Aicha! Start digging a tunnel! Use the vanishing charm!”

The two girls stared at her, blinking.

“Vanish the earth, and dig a tunnel we can escape through!”

They finally understood, and started casting. Hermione looked at Harry, exchanging tired but now hopeful smiles. They’d get out of this death trap!

Then she heard the screams from the Death Eaters closest to them.

*****

Ron Weasley’s mood had been all over the place, worse than a seeker in a whirlwind. First the shock of the attack, then the anger at the Death Eaters, rage, fear for his friends and himself, then growing desperation, and determination, suddenly replaced by hope, and now surprise. Surprise and elation at seeing the Death Eaters who had been trying to kill them getting attacked, from their rear, and from above. The help they had been waiting for had finally arrived!

Ron yelled with glee when he saw one of the mounds of earth the scum was hiding behind blow up. “Yes! Take a vial of your own potion! See how you like it!” he screamed, sending a Blasting Curse of his own at it.

Then he froze for a second, a shiver running down his spine. Another, larger mound, where according to his estimate three of the attackers had been taking cover, was suddenly swarmed by spiders the size of cats. Dozens of them! When he heard the screams of the Death Eaters, he couldn’t help but shudder and think of his spider extermination spell. Hagrid had created monsters!

But at least the monsters were on their side. Ron saw one of the Death Eaters stumble out, broom in hand, with one spider clinging to his bleeding back and another wrapped around his leg. The man was trembling and shaking, and screaming like a mandrake getting pulled out of the soil. Ron silenced him with a Blasting Curse that - coincidentally - also killed the two spiders, not that they had been truly alive to begin with.

Luna and Aicha were still digging, even though they must have heard the news as well. Ron could just make out the blonde’s head in the hole. He looked at Harry, then nodded towards the girls. “Shouldn’t we….?”

Harry shook his head. “We’re not safe yet.”

Ron saw that Hermione hadn’t stopped reinforcing their position. He doubted she would, not even when Dumbledore himself arrived, until the Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey jJinxes were down and they could flee this place.

And given what they had gone through, he didn’t want her to either.

*****

Albus Dumbledore was furious when he surveiled the battlefield from above. The Death Eaters had attacked his students! Defenseless Children! When he saw the small bodies wearing the black robes of Hogwarts lying in the fields, next to shattered, smoking cars, he almost lost control of his temper. Almost - he was too experienced for that.

Instead of hot rage it was with a cold fury that he guided his broom down towards the centre of the battle, a bunker in the remains of a shredded car, probably the work of survivors of the Hit-Wizards who had guarded the train. A flick of his wand blew up one Death Eater hiding behind a wall of earth, and he saw Miss Jenny and Gilderoy putting the new spell they had developed with Rubeus to deadly use. Miss Granger had helped as well, as he recalled. If she wasn’t so busy researching...

Further ahead, the cars and the engine were in better shape, but surrounded by attackers as well. They’d need help. Albus sent a Patronus out to tell Filius and Minerva to take the rest of the teachers and look for students and Death Eaters around the area where the cars had been destroyed, then flew towards the engine. On the way he sent another to Sirius, telling him to secure the remains of the back of the train with his group as soon as the Death Eaters had been driven from the sky.

Then he hit the Death Eaters. Three were crushed beneath the wave of stone he created before he touched the ground, their shields unable to withstand tons of marble piling up and crashing down on them. He dismounted and shrunk his broom before the rest managed to react. One Death Eater faced him, sending dark curses at the Headmaster that he had last seen decades ago. For a second he wondered if Tom had found a veteran of Grindelwald’s army. Then he noticed that the spells were horribly aimed - no Prussian Storm Wizard using those spells would have missed so badly - half of them didn’t even hit the floating marble shields that protected Albus. And none of those he had fought so long ago would have exposed themselves like that Death Eater had, standing out in the open as if this was a duel in the ring.

Then again, the man’s shield was strong, matching his apparent command of the Dark Arts. Not strong enough though - Albus shattered it with a wave of his wand. And the man hadn’t thought to enchant his robes against transfiguration either, which cost him his life when Albus turned the Death Eater’s clothes into steel traps snapping closed around his limbs and torso with enough force to break his bones like twigs.

Two more Death Eaters rushed at him, seemingly heedless of the danger. Albus side-stepped their spells and flicked his wand. One got stuck in the swamp Albus turned the ground before them into, the other managed to avoid that trap by stepping on hastily conjured planks of wood - until Albus finited those, then turned the mud in the swamp into petrol, which he then set afire. Their protective spells didn’t last long faced with such an inferno, but long enough for their bloodcurdling screams to be heard by their friends.

To Albus’s surprise, the other Death Eaters didn’t seem to be affected much, if at all, by their comrades’ fate. Was he facing Voldemort’s inner circle? He dismissed that - the Death Eaters were making too many mistakes Voldemort’s experienced wands would never make. Such difficult spells, cast with so little finesse. He created a whirlwind of debris with his wand while his marble slabs deflected more dark curses, then transfigured the debris into razor blades before sending his construct at the closest Death Eaters. They were literally cut to pieces.

Yet still the men did not break. One was so focused on attacking the train car in front of him, he didn’t even notice Albus until he was covered with Rubeus’s spiders - quite an impressive spell indeed. Had Tom hired berserkers?

Behind Albus he heard a series of explosions. Those were not Blasting Curses, but fireballs - Sirius and his friends at work. He was very glad so many of the Order’s fighters had responded since there was no sign yet of the Ministry’s forces. No sign of Tom either, so far - if this was just a feint, to draw him out… he shook his head. Even if it was, he couldn’t let his students be massacred.

The next Death Eater was screaming his incantations in futile rage, letting Albus know the spells he would be casting in advance. To Albus’s surprise, the man never tried to fool him by casting a different spell than he shouted, not until the three dozen silver daggers Albus had conjured had pierced him like a pincushion. The screams from the man, and his rapid death, told him enough: Werewolves.

A blasting curse to the ground next to two more Death Eaters shook them up and threw up enough dust that they failed to spot the rock he had conjured above them until they were crushed beneath it.

He didn’t see anyone else attacking the car, not anymore, and turned back towards the rear of the train. There were more foes to face, and hopefully more children to save.

*****

Harry Potter stared at the destruction around him. He had known it had been bad, but he hadn’t known just how bad. Too many bodies wearing the black robes of Hogwarts were lying amidst the wreckage of the Hogwarts Express. At least the engine didn’t look too damaged, but the cars… and the landscape. He glanced over his shoulder. Hermione was standing a step behind him, and to his left, as usual for a retainer in public.

He reached out and took her hand, pulling her towards him.

“My…” Whatever surprised protest Hermione had been about to voice died when he took her into his arms. After this horror, he needed to hold her, reassure himself that she was not hurt, that she was safe. That they had survived.

And damn anyone who took offense at the sight of them!

“Blimey!” Ron exclaimed next to them. “It’s a massacre!”

“P-Parvati? Has anyone seen Parvati?” Padma stammered, pale and shivering.

Harry was tempted to simply ignore her, and focus on holding Hermione, but the witch in his arms gently pushed him back, so he released her and looked at the Indian witch. “I haven’t seen her. I don’t even know in which car she was.”

“She was in the second or third from the front,” Padma answered, tears appearing in her eyes. About 10 yards away, an Auror and a healer stood from where they had been kneeling next to a body. The Auror flicked his wand, and a conjured blanket covered it up.

“Why didn’t they arrive sooner?” Ron muttered, steadying Padma. The Ministry’s forces had made their appearance after the battle had been over already - after Dumbledore, the Order and the teachers had routed the Death Eaters.

“I don’t know,” Harry said.

“Harry!”

That was Sirius! Harry turned around and saw Sirius running towards him. He barely managed to brace himself before the older wizard hugged him - harder than Hermione ever had. “Merlin, you’re safe! You’re safe!”

For a moment Harry feared his godfather would break down and cry as he patted his back. “I’m OK. No one of us died, but a few got hurt.”

“Cursed?” Sirius pulled away and stared at the youths. “Dark curses?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, mostly splinters from explosions.”

“Still, let the healers take a look! Those bastards threw around a lot of very dark curses.”

Harry blinked. “Who was cursed?”

Sirius took a deep breath. “Valérie. In the wing. Bill saved her, but… they’re not sure how much damage was done.”

Padma sobbed. “Where is my sister?” Everyone looked awkwardly while Ron tried to console her. Harry didn’t know what to say. He suddenly felt guilty.

“Let’s ask an Auror. They will be noting the names of those who escaped safely, and of those…” Hermione trailed off. Ron shot her a brief glare.

“Come, let’s get to the healers!” Sirius started dragging him away. Harry let him - he didn’t want to stay around the carnage any longer than he had to.

*****

St. Mungo’s was overflowing with patients, healers, Aurors and Hit-Wizards. Pansy Parkinson averted her gaze when a healer rushed past her, trailing a floating, convulsing witch in tattered remains of the grey robes of a Hit-Wizard. The Slytherin student hadn’t been quick enough though, and had seen the bleeding stumps where the woman’s legs should have been, and the smoke rising from the black skin…

She felt bile rise in her throat again, and fought not to retch. A Bubble-Head Charm kept the smell of the wounded and cursed out, but it didn’t do anything against the memories. Next to her, Greengrass was sitting on the same small bench. The blonde witch hadn’t said a word since they had sat down. Hadn’t done anything but stare at the door behind which Davis was getting treated.

Greg was leaning against the wall next to them. The large wizard was silent as well, but he was wiping his eyes with his sleeve regularly, ever since Pansy had told him about Vincent.

Vincent. Pansy would have died if not for the boy. The dumb, brave boy. He probably had thought the Shield Charm he had taken so long to perfect would keep him safe, when he had stepped in front of her. But it had failed him. All that training, all that tutoring… and he had died. In front of her. Saving her. Who had failed to teach him how to defend himself properly. Who had picked the route that had led them straight to the wand of a crazed Death Eater. And who had been too slow, too stupid to react. Unlike Vincent.

His death was her fault. Her damned fault.

Pansy buried her face in her hands and wept. She didn’t stop when she felt one, then another hand on her shoulders.

She was still weeping when Greengrass’s mother arrived.

“Daphne!” The Head of the Greengrass rushed towards her daughter. “Hecate’s blessing, you’re safe! They told us at the desk, but ...”

Greengrass started to cry too, then. “I’m fine, but Tracey… she’s…” The blonde witch didn’t manage to say anything else.

Pansy shuddered, but sat up and cast a cosmetic charm to clean up. More parents would arrive soon, or so she expected. After a moment, she cast the spell on Greg as well. The shadow of a smile appeared on his face when he nodded his thanks.

And yet when her own mother arrived, she started to cry again.

*****

Hermione Granger was, as perverse as it felt, glad that her parents were not around. That they were on a world cruise, cut off from wizard news. That they would only be hearing about the attack with the knowledge that she was safe. The hospital was a madhouse, with heart-rending scenes happening everywhere. Parents reuniting with their children, crying with relief. Or parents finding their children hurt, or worse.

The others in their group had left already, with their families. Parvati was safe as well, her parents had told them. They hadn’t known about Lavender though. Hadn’t thought to ask. It was now just her and Harry. And Sirius and his girlfriends.

The witch didn’t want to be there. Each time she saw one of the wounded, saw someone cry, she remembered the battle, the desperate struggle to keep up the walls that kept them safe. The fear that she’d fail, and get her friends, get Harry killed. She just wanted to get away, to get home, grab Harry and not let go of him for the rest of the day.

But she couldn’t. Not yet. Valérie had been hurt saving them, and was getting treated in St. Mungo’s. And Sirius was going spare. He needed Harry nearby, and Harry needed her. His godfather was pacing in front of the door to Valérie’s room, growing more and more agitated. Valérie’s cousins were there as well, not quite pacing, but Hermione saw them fidget, and twitch, and jerk each time something came near them.

“What exactly happened? Why did the Ministry take so long to arrive?” Anything to distract them and especially Sirius.

The animagus stopped pacing. “I don’t know. We went to the wrong spot, at first, and had to search for the train.”

“Disinformation, or a mistake?” Harry was frowning. Hermione touched his back, under the guise of brushing some dust off him. She could feel how tense he was. If he was blaming himself for this...

Sirius shrugged. “I don’t know. The Ministry isn’t lacking in either spies or idiots.” He started to pace again.

“Was that your bike I saw?” Harry asked.

“Yes. I loaned it to Hagrid. He hasn’t a broom that can carry him and can keep up with others. If I had known about the spiders...”

“Well, you did, didn’t you?” The wizard had been told, after all.

“I hadn’t known just how bad they are.” Sirius sat down next to the two. “But compared to those Death Eaters… the last time I saw so many dark curses was at the Black family reunion.”

Hermione hoped Harry’s godfather was joking. “Was Remus there as well?”

Sirius nodded. “He was. He’s at home now.” With the moon soon to rise, he’d better be.

Before Hermione could ask another question, the door opened and a tired healer stepped out. “We’ve managed to undo most of the curse’s effect, but we can’t say yet if the wing will regain functionality. You can see her now.” Without waiting for an answer, the man turned away and pulled his wand out, sending a small paper-aeroplane off.

Sirius was already in the room, holding Valérie. A second later, the two were buried under the other three Veela. Hermione hesitated to approach them, they looked so… intimate. She felt like an intruder, until Harry took her hand, closed the door and they joined their family.

*****

Albus Dumbledore sighed as he read the scroll St. Mungo’s had just sent him. Seamus Finnigan. Gryffindor, fifth year. Dead. Killed. He added the name to the list that had far too many names on it already. Another one followed, Vincent Crabbe. Slytherin, fifth year. Killed. Rubeus had told him about that student already. But Albus had hesitated to add the name until the clinic confirmed it. Melvin Bracken. Ravenclaw, fourth year. Killed. Maria Baytrunks. Ravenclaw, fourth year. Killed.

More were wounded. Headboy Cedric Diggory had engaged the attackers to let the other students escape. He had been joined by Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe, and all three had been gravely wounded. They were alive at least.

Not only students had been wounded. Aurora had been cursed, but was expected to recover… in time. Rubeus had caught ‘a few scratches’, as he had put it. Anyone else with the possible exception of Olympe would have been killed. Flitwick and Minerva hadn’t escaped unscathed, but their wounds had been healed already. Gilderoy had not been hurt, unlike Jenny, though the Australian witch claimed she had had worse just visiting friends in the Outback.

He hadn’t heard from his brother yet, whose ‘friends’ had engaged Death Eaters attacking the Breakwater family’s mansion. Hopefully, that meant things had gone well there, Aberforth would have thrown any dead into his face otherwise, or so he hoped.

So much death, so much sorrow. If he had been on the train, that wouldn’t have happened… if he had been faster to see through Tom’s deception… if he had anticipated this… Albus closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Anger, either at Tom or at himself, wouldn’t serve him now. He needed to keep a cool head, to counter Tom’s plans. Something had been up with those Death Eaters they had fought, and he needed to find out what. The old wizard stood up and walked towards his pensieve.

The Dark Lord had not been seen today. He had known Albus would intervene in an attack on the Express, so where had he been while Albus had saved his students?

*****

Amelia Bones hadn’t slept either, Albus saw the next morning, when they met in Cornelius’s office. She looked awake, but the Headmaster saw the signs of a Pepper-Up potion at work. Or two.

The Minister had been reading the Daily Prophet until Albus had arrived, and now threw the newspaper on the desk with a disgusted expression and enough force to have the Aurors and Hit-Wizards depicted on the front page flee their frames. “Dozens of students dead! What went wrong yesterday? How could this happen? Where were our Aurors and Hit-Wizards?”

Albus wasn’t about to correct the number of deaths - even though there hadn’t been quite as many dead students as the Daily Prophet claimed, it was, without a doubt, a horrible tragedy anyway.

Amelia spoke in a clipped voice. “The Hit-Wizards on the train did their duty. Without them, many more students would have been killed. They were almost wiped out, Cornelius, while protecting the children.”

“But why were there so few? And why were the others too late?” Fudge looked at Albus. “We’re all grateful that you and your staff arrived to fight the attackers, but you shouldn’t have been alone.” That was added with a glare at Amelia.

The witch didn’t let the unspoken accusation stand though. “We were deceived. The first reports of the attack led us to another location. We had to search for the real location of the attack. At the same time, reports of attacks in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade came in, and alerts from a dozen homes, stretching our forces further.”

Cornelius didn’t look like he accepted that excuse, but he didn’t press further. Smart, Albus thought, given Amelia’s temper and lack of sleep. “Talking about ‘our forces’... something you want to elaborate on, Albus?”

“You already know that I have a number of friends who will fight the Dark Lord’s forces when they are needed,” the Headmaster answered, smiling slightly.

“‘A number of friends’, yes. I didn’t know about that army of foreigners though.”

“The Dark Lord has been recruiting foreigners for some time. Asking foreign friends for help seemed an appropriate answer.” Albus spread his hands. “And I have no doubt that their presence surprised the Dark Lord and disrupted his plans.” He had known keeping the reinforcements from the Balkans a secret would ruffle some feathers, but there were too many spies inside the ministry. Tom would have known about the mercenaries at once, and adjusted his plans.

“You don’t trust us to keep a secret?” Cornelius asked.

“I trust you and Amelia, but I fear that not everyone working for the ministry is trustworthy.” Albus saw the minister’s chest swell a bit with subconscious pride, then his expression fell again when he was reminded of the moles riddling the ministry.

“What are your plans for them now that we know about them?” Amelia leaned forward.

“The same as before: Keep them ready to oppose the Dark Lord’s forces wherever they are needed.”

“Coordinating with the Hit-Wizards would reduce the danger of them getting attacked by mistake and make it easier to cover more of the country,” the head of the DMLE said.

“It would also make it easier for the Dark Lord to track them,” Albus countered. “Further, I am not certain how well they would integrate with the Hit-Wizards. They come from a very different culture.”

“We can’t have foreign mercenaries roam Britain!” Cornelius declared.

“We need them. This attack has shown that the Dark Lord has more and better wands at his disposal than we thought,” Albus calmly stated. The number of Hit-Wizards killed by the attackers, and the way they had been killed was proof enough of that.

“Who exactly were those Death Eaters, Albus? We haven’t found a marked one among them, but according to the reports, they cast worse curses than the Dark Lord’s inner circle.” Amelia stared at him.

“I would not go that far, but I have personally witnessed a surprising competence with difficult dark curses among the Death Eaters we fought at the Hogwarts Express. That is a marked contrast to the other attacks.”

“Those were mostly diversionary in nature,” Amelia argued.

“Mostly, but not entirely. And I doubt the Death Eaters would have refrained from using such curses since their use would have made even diversions more effective.” Albus shook his head. “But I also noticed a curious lack of combat experience among those dark wizards.”

“They were quite effective against the Hit-Wizards,” Amelia said, her expression darkening at what she probably saw as a slight against those brave men and women had given their lives for the students.

“Yes. But that was entirely due to the surprise, and the spells used. Actual tactics and fighting did not match the demonstrated proficiency in the Dark Arts,” Albus explained. “They were rather careless, and far too fixated on attacking. Inexperienced, in a word.”

“Do you mean that those were students, fresh out from a ‘Dark Wizard Academy’?” Cornelius looked rather doubtful as he quoted a rather popular but entirely fictional novel set during Grindelwald’s War.

“I wish that were the case. It would mean that their loss would have dealt the Dark Lord a severe blow. Alas, I fear the reason for the proficiency lies in this.” With that, Albus pulled out the wand he had taken from one of the Death Eaters the day before.

“The wand?” Cornelius sounded confused for a moment.

“It is a very unusual design. It’s not a normal wand, but something else. I will be conferring with Ollivander and the Unspeakables later, but I think the wand made the wizard, in this case.”

No one found his wordplay amusing.

“That aside, there is still the question what we should do about dozens of foreign wizards fighting in Britain.” Amelia wasn’t about to let that go.

When the meeting ended, Albus had agreed to have - thoroughly vetted - liaison wizards and witches join his ‘foreign friends’ to improve coordination, and grant the Ministry some measure of supervision, if not actual control. It was a better result than he had expected.

*****

Ollivanders Wand Shop hadn’t changed in decades. The shop looked just the same as it had looked when Albus himself had bought his wand, so many decades ago, from Garrick’s father. It was a welcome bit of familiarity, after Albus had walked through a Diagon Alley bereft of the usual crowds. The few people he had seen shopping were afraid and nervous, and quick to leave.

Garrick didn’t show any such nervousness or surprise when Albus ended the Disillusion Charm that had hid his entrance from prying eyes. “Good morning, Albus. What brings you to my humble shop? You’re not in need of a new wand, are you?” The wandmaker laughed at his own words, and Albus smiled a little in response.

“No. I am here to show you something. In private though.” The Headmaster waited until Garrick had closed the shop, then pulled the wand and the two others he had acquired at the Ministry earlier out.

The other wizard’s eyes widened when he saw them, and even more so when he laid his hands on them. “Merlin!” He looked at Albus. “Where did you get them?”

Albus smiled, but did not answer. Garrick muttered something under his breath that he missed, and studied one of the wands more closely. The Headmaster waited patiently - he knew how masters of their craft could get when faced with something they hadn’t seen before.

After half an hour filled with mutterings, notes, and swishes, Garrick put the wand down looked up. “This is an abomination!”

“You know what it is then?” That was better than what Albus had expected.

“I’ve never seen one like this before. But I know the style of the wand. It’s Steinberg’s work.”

“Steinberg? He was thought to have been killed after Grindelwald’s defeat.” The survivors of that wizards experiments hadn’t been in a merciful mood.

“Supposedly. There have been wands in the past that reminded me of his work, but they were normal. This though… it looks like he perfected his design.” Garrick pushed the wand towards Albus with a sneer. “This thing is steeped in the dark arts. I doubt it is useful for anything else but killing. But that it’ll do very well.”

“It did, I saw that myself. The Dark Lord’s men had over two dozen of those wands.” Albus ignored how the wandmaker seemed startled at hearing this and stashed all three wands again. “Did you detect any weakness of the wand?”

Garrick shook his head. “I would need to study it longer to discover such flaws. With an expert for the Dark Arts. All I can say that this wand hungers for blood and pain.”

“I see.” That would explain the behaviour of the Death Eaters, somewhat. “Thank you, Garrick. You have done our country a great service.”

Garrick smiled, though it looked forced to the Headmaster.

“Rest assured, I will keep your involvement absolutely confidential,” Albus said. That seemed to reassure the other wizard. The wandmaker had done his best to stay out of the last war. Some would even claim he had done so because he expected the Dark Lord to win. He wouldn’t have been the only one too afraid of Tom to take a stand though, so Albus wouldn’t judge the man for that. Not everyone could be a Gryffindor, after all.

He disillusioned himself and left the shop. Hopefully, the Unspeakables would find out more about those wands. They’d have to be very careful though - who knew what traps were hidden inside those wands.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort read the Daily Prophet and smiled widely. The country was shaking in terror. Dozens of students and Hit-Wizards massacred, the Hogwarts Express wrecked - it was a blow to the heart of Wizarding Britain. It showed them no one, nothing was safe from his wrath. Not even children at Hogwarts.

Of course the rag tried to tout the Ministry line that the Death Eaters who had attacked the express had been wiped out, that the Dark Lord himself had fled - but that was propaganda. None of the parents who had lost a child would believe it. His plan had worked well, the diversionary attacks drawing off forces, the imperiused ministry employes sowing confusion, reporting the wrong location… and he had been able to use the opportunity to take out a thorn in his side. Jeremias Flauntroy, the head of the Flauntroy family, had died in his mansion, and would be replaced by his son - who had been bitten by the werewolf wench last week. No one would suspect him to be working for the Dark Lord.

If only the wands had worked better. He had lost more wands than he had planned - including werewolves. He needed to discuss this with Steinberg.

He heard Bella stir on his bed behind him and turned around. The witch blinked at the sun. He loved those moments, when she had just woken up, the smile that appeared when she remembered their night together. He hadn’t sacrificed a werewolf that night, even though it had been a full moon.

“My lord?”

He nodded at her. “Good morning, Bella.” Steinberg could wait a bit longer

*****

Sirius Black watched Valérie transform in the hall in No. 12 Grimmauld Place, and had to fight not to wince. The Veela’s right wing looked almost whole, with just a few less feathers than the left one, after a week of treatments, but the way it hung slightly down, didn’t move quite as well as the other… it didn’t look good. He smiled encouragingly though.

Valérie nodded back at him, clicking her beak, then tried to fly. She almost lost her balance when her right wing couldn’t match her left one. He glanced at her cousins, and all three of them showed the same worry, and slowly growing sorrow. After a frustrated screech, Valérie apparently tried to match the left wing to her wounded one - but that didn’t allow her to lift off. And when she tried harder, she lost her balance again, this time actually falling to the floor. More angry curses and screeches followed, and more attempts to fly failed.

When she collapsed, and started to transform back, Sirius rushed to her, and pulled her into his arms.

Shivering, she held him. “I… I will need a broom I think,” the Veela said, trying to smile and make light of her fate.

“I’ll buy you the best!” he promised, but she was crying already, sobbing into his shoulder. To have lost the ability to fly… Sirius didn’t want to imagine how that had to feel. Chantal, Eugénie and Laure joined the two, like in the clinic, mumbling assurances no one believed while hugging them. Valérie kept crying though, he could feel her body trembling in his arms, heard her sobs, and felt her tears on his neck.

He heard a coughing noise, and looked up. His godson was standing there, looking embarrassed and uneasy. Next to him stood Hermione, looking slightly lost in thought. They were dressed in muggle clothes.

“Did the healer say what exactly had happened to her wing?” The witch asked suddenly.

Sirius said: “They said the curse was lifted, but the damage was done. The wing’s been weakened.” Too much to fly. Valérie’s sobs grew louder, and Sirius cursed the witch for asking, and himself for answering without a thought.

“Is it the muscle, or the bones and ligaments, or both?” Hermione asked as if she was in class. Harry glanced at her, and she elaborated. “Physiotherapy and reconstructive surgery might help recover at least part of the moving range. Maybe enough to fly.”

Sirius didn’t know what Harry’s girlfriend was talking about, but if it could let Valérie fly again, he’d move heaven and earth to get it. And judging by the expressions on the Veela, so would they.

*****

“Do you really think muggle therapy and surgery can help Valérie?”

Hermione Granger looked up from the book she had been flipping through and met Harry’s eyes. She nodded. “It’s possible. It can’t hurt, at least. She can still move the wing, just not as well as before. Training might overcome that.”

“It was done by a dark curse though,” Harry said, putting the book he had been reading the back cover of back on the table.

“That curse was lifted. Depending on how it worked, the effects, although resistant to restorative magic, might be dealt with using muggle methods.” Hermione added her book to her pile. The bookstore they were in had a sale going on, and it would be a crime not to take advantage of that. Even if they had to interrupt their stroll through London for that.

“If it doesn’t work out they’ll be devastated,” Harry pointed out as they moved towards the register. “And we’ll have some trouble finding someone able to help them, without breaking the Statute. It’s not as if there are lots of surgeons and therapists who know about magic.”

“It’s still a decent chance. And I’m certain we’ll find a way.” A relative of a wizard with the skills needed would be best, but if needed, they’d tell a muggle. It wasn’t as if the Statute of Secrecy was in that much danger from one doctor learning about magic. And if it was, there was Obliviate. “I’ve written to my parents, just in case. They should know a good surgeon, and maybe a therapist too.” She didn’t think Sirius and his girlfriends would be waiting until they were meeting her parents in the Caribbean in a few weeks. And if that failed, she’d look into a developing a spell to compensate for the crippled wing. After she had saved Harry, of course.

Harry sighed, but nodded.

Hermione leaned against the counter as their purchases - or rather, her purchases - were rung up. She caught the glances from the clerk, and the other customers, and smirked. She wasn’t dressed that provocatively, certainly not when compared to the typical attire of a witch in her year, but she had taken care to pick an outfit that looked attractive, and sexy. After a week spent visiting hurt friends and attending funerals, and dealing with nightmares, she needed a distraction. As did Harry. And her boyfriend had been quite distracted so far by her, if she did say so herself.

Harry took the bag, and the two left the store, holding hands. In the muggle world, they were just boyfriend and girlfriend, not Patron and retainer. Nymphadora was acting as their bodyguard, but she was family - they didn’t have to act their roles in front of her.

The witch stepped closer to Harry, taking his arm as they strolled down the street, towards a street café. If only they could act like this and use their wands!

Hermione shook her head slightly. She wouldn’t think such morose thoughts, she would enjoy the day instead!

A glance showed her that she wasn’t the only one harboring darker thoughts. “What’s eating you?”

Harry sighed. “I can’t help but thinking that Seamus and the others would still be alive, if I had reacted differently to the attack.”

“You mean, if _we_ had reacted differently,” Hermione corrected him. “And you’re wrong. Parkinson tried to flee, and Crabbe got killed protecting her.”

“Apparently she and Goyle also saved a few other students.” Harry wasn’t looking at her now, and she had the impression he wasn’t looking at anyone or anything but his memories of the attack.

“By holing up, we made them focus on us, and probably allowed others to flee. Like a rearguard,” Hermione pointed out.

“Probably. We can’t be sure.”

“No, we can’t. But we can’t be sure that we didn’t save anyone either. And we know we saved our friends.” Hermione wasn’t about to let Harry torment himself with guilt.

“I know that. But…”

“You’re still feeling guilty. For surviving where others did not.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a perfectly normal reaction.” She knew that since she felt the same. “It doesn’t mean there’s any truth to the feeling.” And if she told him and herself that a few more times, she might start truly believing that as well. “Let’s sit down in that café, and rest a bit.”

The ice cream wasn’t as good as Fortescue’s, but they could share a bowl here, feed each other spoonfuls of dessert, and hold hands with no one thinking the muggleborn witch was overstepping her boundaries.  
  
And there wasn’t a war going on in this world. The people around them were enjoying the summer, not fearing for their lives. She licked a dollop of cream from her lips, then smiled at Harry. “Let’s not talk about the war for the rest of the day. Not a single word.”

Her boyfriend nodded in agreement. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, but it was a start.

They’d get through this.

*****

Sirius Black winced at the sight of Valérie suffering during her ‘physiotherapy’. To think muggles went through such torture regularly after breaking a limb… Though from what he had heard, the Grangers had dealt out even worse to their patients - dentists were feared among muggles for their painful treatments.

Valérie was enduring this, eagerly even. To be able to fly again the Veela would do almost anything. Even breaking the Statute of Secrecy. Though it was more like lightly scratching it - as Hermione had said, one more muggle knowing about magic wasn’t a big deal. Especially with compulsion charms making sure she’d not tell anyone else about it.

“And that’s enough for today.” Cecile, the torturer, announced. After the initial shock of seeing a man transform into a dog, and a woman into a bird-like creature, the muggle woman had recovered quickly, and had taken Valérie’s case as a challenge.

“I can still do more!” Valérie protested, even though she had already resumed her human form.

“Honey, you’re that close to collapsing, or hurting yourself. You need rest. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

“But...” Valérie tried again.

“No buts! We’ll continue tomorrow. You’ll be flying soon enough.”

Sirius had started to walk over to his girlfriend, and was close enough to hear Valérie mutter ‘not soon enough’ under her breath in response. Sirius ruffled her hair, which made her pout and stagger off to ‘freshen up’ in the locker room of Cecile’s office.

Once she had left the room, Sirius handed over the money for today’s session to Cecile.

“You’re still sceptical that the therapy will work,” the woman stated while pocketing her pay.

Sirius reluctantly nodded. He wouldn’t say so in front of the Veela, of course. But… “It’s hard to imagine that anything will work where magic fails.”

“You’re paying a lot of money for something you don’t trust then.”

Sirius shrugged. He was rich, after all - and what use was gold if you couldn’t spend it to help your family?

“I told you before: While I cannot promise results, I am positive that this treatment will work. At least for the physical disability. If that will be enough for the magic dust to kick in, then she’ll fly again.”

Sirius had to chuckle at the expression. “You know it’s not that kind of magic that allows her to fly.”

The therapist snorted. “It’s as good a word as any. Even with double their strength, those wings wouldn’t allow her to fly. So it has to be magic. Wasn’t it you who told me of the theory that damaging a magical creature’s body could influence their magic?”

“Yes.” Sirius had done so - though he hadn’t told anyone just how Eridanus Black had researched his theory. What his ancestor had done to creatures…

“So, healing the body should heal the magic as well.”

For creatures that might work, Sirius thought. It had to.

Valérie returned from the locker room, still wearing her muggle exercise clothes, though they looked clean and fresh now. And her smile, while tired, wasn’t an act anymore. She was healing.

Sirius bowed to the woman, then offered Valérie his arm.

“Let’s go home.”

*****


	41. Caribbean Vacation

**Chapter 41: Caribbean Vacation**

“Welcome, my friends.”

Albus Dumbledore wasn’t smiling when he greeted the assembled Order of the Phoenix. He hadn’t very often felt like smiling since the attack on his students. Though, he mentally amended, glancing at Sirius and Valérie sitting very close together at the corner, there had been reasons to smile, even in those dark times.

“I assume you have read the latest issue of the Daily Prophet. As much as it pains me to say it, the number of deaths reported there is correct.”

He waited while sharp breaths were drawn by those who had still hoped it was a mistake, and those who had already known - the teachers like Minerva, Filius, or Rubeus, as well as the Aurors Kingsley and Nymphadora - nodded with grim faces. Molly was sniffling, comforted by Arthur. The witch had almost lost four children in the attack. Young William patted his mother’s back. Fleur though, the Curse-Breaker’s girlfriend, now fiancée, didn’t seem to know how to react. After a few seconds, she whispered something Albus didn’t catch to Molly, and then held William’s hand.

“So many children killed…” Dedalus muttered, shaking his head as if he still could not believe it. The Headmaster wasn’t surprised - he was a very traditional man, and to see the Death Eaters breaking one of the oldest customs and traditions of Wizarding Britain, and attacking the students, had shocked him to the core.

“Indeed. Wizarding Britain has suffered a blow to its heart.” Albus had to control himself to not let his anger show, much less have it take over. To strike at his students, his school… Tom had gone beyond the pale. Sadly, it was still not certain if the Dark Lord would benefit more than he’d suffer for his vile deed. At least in this life. It was yet to be determined if more of Britain’s wands were outraged and spurred into fierce defiance than cowed into submission. “And yet this is not the worst news I have.”

That caught everyone’s attention.

“Those of you who fought there, as well as those of you who helped rescue children, know about the dark curses that were cast by the Dark Lord’s men.”

“Aye. Curses I’ve not seen in that number since the days of facing the Inner Circle in the last war,” Alastor commented. “And cast from wizards and witches barely out of school, judging by the bodies and pieces we found. Spells fit for a Dark Lord’s right hand, cast by kids too dumb to know how to fight or even duel properly. Quite the mystery.”

That caused a lot more whispering and muttering. Sirius pulled Valérie into his lap, no doubt remembering the curse that had struck her and had almost taken her life. That would have robbed her of her ability to fly, if not for the muggle means Miss Granger had apparently discovered. This ‘physiotherapy’ might be able to overcome the lingering effect of the curse, if Sirius’s tales were to be believed. It was a fascinating thought, and Albus hoped he’d find the time soon to investigate the matter. With such curses cast by the enemy, any means to counter their effects would be in dire need soon enough.

He didn’t have the time today, though. The Headmaster held up one of the wands taken from the attackers. “Indeed, a mystery - but one solved.” He saw the hope on some faces, and the sudden dread on those who understood what he was about to tell them. “They could cast such difficult and dark spells thanks to special wands. Wands that are attuned to the Dark Arts.” Close enough for laymen, even if Saul would frown at him for simplifying it like that.

He didn’t let his friends discuss this matter, and work themselves up in a frenzy or even panic. Some still whispered, but they soon feel silent as he continued. “Those are very dangerous wands - for their wielders as well. And not just because they make them overconfident, and prone to commit fatal mistakes.”

Alastor nodded at that - earlier, the old Auror had given him quite the analysis of the tactical failures of the attackers. And of the mistakes the Order members had committed.

“They influence the wielder, urge them to kill, and do worse - at the expense of their own safety,” he explained.

“So, if we can exploit that, we can deal with them,” William said, nodding. Albus almost smiled at the youth’s optimism.

“Lad, they were inexperienced, but they killed most of the guards of the Express - and those were not raw recruits. Don’t underestimate them!” Alastor glared at the young curse-breaker. “And that’s only as long as whoever is making those wands does not improve them.”

The Headmaster nodded. “I cannot stress enough that you need to be careful. This time we were facing inexperienced new recruits drunk on the power their new wands bestowed upon them. The next time we might be facing experienced Death Eaters - or even the Dark Lord’s inner circle - wielding such wands.”

“But what can we do?” Molly asked.

“Train harder, prepare better,” Alastor answered. “Be ready at all times to fight with all you have. Constant vigilance!” The grizzled Auror glared at Nymphadora when she joined in with his last words, but the metamorphmagus simply grinned back at her former instructor.

Albus coughed lightly, to draw the Order’s attention again. As nice as a bit of humour was, especially these days, they had important matters to discuss. “As you know, we have received reinforcements, friends and allies, from abroad.”

“And wands for hire,” Alastor muttered.

“For now and for the foreseeable future, we have the advantage of numbers. We will train as well, both individually and in groups. Many of us already do that.” He nodded at Sirius and his Veela friends. “But we’ll need to train to fight together with our new friends as well.” That didn’t go over that well. Albus knew a number of the Order members had reservations against working with mercenaries due to their past, and others because of the hired wands’ sometimes questionable loyalties. Aberforth wasn’t completely imagining his and his shadier friends’ grievances, after all. And yet, those reservations had to be put aside if they had to have any hope of winning the war. Firmly, he continued: “This is needed. We have to work together, closely together, to defeat the Dark Lord’s wands. We cannot do so without training together.” And, so the Headmaster hoped, it might also cause some of the wizards and witches, both from the Order and others, to adjust their views of each other. It certainly had done so for him, back during the Intervention.

Alastor met his gaze, at least with his good eye. He was the key, Albus knew. His old friend was one of the most experienced and respected or at least feared members of the Order. And for all his eccentricities, his influence among the Aurors and even the Hit-Wizards was considerable.

After half a minute, Alastor snorted. “Alright, I’ll work with the lot. Even if most of them are criminal scum, I’d rather have them fighting the Dark Lord properly than messing up.”

This time Albus smiled. Now he only had to tell them about the Ministry liaisons.

*****

His brother looked tired, Aberforth Dumbledore thought. More tired even than he had expected, after the attack on the Hogwarts Express - or the ‘Train Massacre’, as the Prophet was calling it. For a moment, the old wizard felt a touch of worry about his brother’s health. Just like himself, the Headmaster wasn’t getting any younger, after all. Then Aberforth pushed it away. The man had a lot to answer for, and being tired was nothing compared to what had happened to those who had suffered for the old wizard’s mistakes in the past. And would be suffering again.

Gruffly, he nodded at the table in the corner before Albus could greet him. The Headmaster nodded, then went ahead. Aberforth took two butterbeers, then summoned a bottle of Ogden’s Finest and followed him. On the way he exchanged a glance with Iva, who was sitting at a table with a few of her wands. The girl looked at him, then back at Albus. Aberforth wondered, briefly, what she was thinking of the man he blamed for her grand-aunt’s death. What Lea had told her.

It wasn’t the time to dwell on that though. He and Albus had more pressing matters to discuss, or his brother wouldn’t have visited. He took a seat opposite his brother. There was no real need anymore to act as if they were not working together. After the Dark Lord had sent his murderers against the students, only those too weak or too craven to fight, or those supporting him, with words or deeds, would not take a stand. And Aberforth was neither, which the Dark Lord knew well.

Albus ignored the butterbeer and filled a conjured glass with a double shot of the whiskey.

“That bad?” Aberforth asked, opening his bottle of butterbeer.

“The funerals are over, and the shock has given way to frantic activity at the Ministry and Wizengamot. Frantic, but often chaotic, lacking any plan or even direction. Keeping the Wizengamot from blindly rushing down a path to disaster takes a lot of effort,” the Headmaster explained.

Aberforth shrugged. “I don’t expect anything else but short-sighted stupidity from that bunch of fools.” He sipped from his bottle. “Do you suspect there are some traitors at work?”

“If there are, then they are very subtle about it. Fortunately, Amelia has kept her head on her shoulders, and her position, and Cornelius can be reasoned with.”

“Bribed or cowed, you mean,” Aberforth couldn’t help stating. It likely had taken either or both to prevent Fudge from sacrificing Bones as a scapegoat to deflect the blame from himself. Damn politicians!

Albus ignored that. “Both are concerned about our recently arrived allies from outside Britain.” The old Wizard smiled wearily.

Aberforth sighed, and briefly closed his eyes. He knew that expression. “What do they want?”

“They want to have liaisons. To coordinate our forces.”

“What?” Aberforth wasn’t certain he had heard correctly. “The Ministry’s riddled with spies, especially among the Hit-Wizards! Too many were recruited too fast to keep traitors out, and you want them to know about our plans and missions?”

“No, I do not want that. But we need to work together to beat the Dark Lord, especially if he manages to procure more of those dark wands. And I want to prevent tragic misunderstandings from happening,” Albus said, in the kind of overly understanding tone Aberforth hated.

He knew what kind of ‘tragic misunderstanding’ Albus was hinting at. He hadn’t dreamed of the dead Bavarian wizards in years, but he hadn’t forgotten them, or how he had slain them thinking they were Grindelwald’s. He snarled at his brother, but didn’t, couldn’t say anything right then.

Albus calmly met his gaze. He looked like he regretted his words, and Aberforth was certain he did, but he also knew no matter the regret, Albus would still do and say whatever he thought necessary. He reached for the whiskey, and poured himself a shot, then threw it back.

After he had stopped burping fire, he glared at Albus again, loathing both his brother and himself. “They can liaise with the hired wands. My other friends are not the kind of people to fight in the field.” And they were not the kind of people who wanted the government to know about them, and their skills. The Macedonians and Greeks who were staying in his inn for now, until more safe houses could be set up, though… they wouldn’t care, since they’d leave Britain afterwards anyway. And they hadn’t done anything… questionable… in Britain before. Hopefully.

Albus nodded. “Of course. It would make no sense to expose those of our friends who do not fight. At least not in the open.” Aberforth didn’t comment on the fact that the existence of the Order of the Phoenix was now a very open secret, even if the name itself was still a secret.

“You’ll personally choose the liaisons for my friends.” Choose, and test. And if one of them turned traitor, Albus would pay. Aberforth cared about his friends, both old and new, far more than about his brother.

“Of course.”

His brother was too understanding. He wouldn’t even gloat, or act as if he had expected that, even if he had. And while he had noticed Iva’s resemblance to her grand-aunt, he hadn’t said anything. His brother knew which lines he couldn’t cross. Even if it had taken him a long time to learn.

Aberforth snorted, and refilled his glass. “So, what did you find out about those ‘dark wands’?” Talking about the war, as disgusting as it was, was far easier than talking about the two of them.

*****

Ron Weasley looked at the bright, blinking Triple-W-sign that was floating in front of the freshly-painted house in Diagon Alley, together with a flashing billboard that proclaimed ‘Grand Opening!’, and smiled widely. His brothers had done it! Their own shop, ‘Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’, not even three weeks after finishing their N.E.W.T.s!

“Impressive, isn’t it? Like a muggle advertising neon board!” Ron’s dad was beaming with pride. Mum nodded in agreement, but kept looking around the alley nervously - not even the presence of Aurors and Hit-Wizards next to the store seemed to reassure the witch that they were safe. It was a wonder Dad had managed to convince her to travel through the alley after taking the Floo to the Leaky Cauldron, instead of directly travelling to the twin’s flat above the shop. But someone had to show that Wizarding Britain wasn’t scared, and the more people who acted normally were seen, the more would follow their example. Though it carried a certain risk, of course.

Ron exchanged a glance with Ginny. Their mother wasn’t exactly paranoid. If the Dark Lord dared to attack the Hogwarts Express, then Diagon Alley wasn’t any safer. It certainly didn’t look like many thought it was safer - the usual summer crowds were absent.

Urged by mum, they entered the shop. Ron shivered slightly when he felt the wards he was passing through. Security was tight. The announced ‘Grand Opening’ was scheduled for the next day, but family and close friends were invited a day earlier to celebrate. And given the twins’ popularity as Quidditch players, that meant the store was packed. Granted, his family alone would have made for a decent crowd, but there seemed to be many current and former Gryffindor students. Wood, for one, was there, talking with the Gryffindor chasers. It probably was a good thing mum had packed more snacks for the occasion.

Padma wasn’t present though, nor would she be, despite an invitation. He hadn’t even seen her since the attack. She had written him, explaining that her family was still dealing with the attack, and wouldn’t want to take more risks. He didn’t know if he was now considered a risk as well by her family. Or by her.

“There you are!” His brother’s voice cut through the noise of several conversations and interrupted his thoughts before they could turn too glum. Heads turned towards them as Fred and George waved at them, grinning from ear to ear. “What do you think of the shop?”

“It looks great. Very impressive spellwork!” Dad said. “Inspired by muggles, I take it?”

“In part. All products are wizard-produced, of course,” Fred assured them. “Even if they look like they’re built by muggles.”

Their father nodded jovially, not inquiring further. Whether he truly believed them, or simply accepted the claim Ron couldn’t tell. Since dad was the head of the department that dealt with illegally enchanted muggle items, Ron hoped his brothers weren’t breaking the law.

“It looks very nice,” mum agreed, after a short inspection of the ground floor, “but will you have enough customers, after…” She trailed off, unwilling to mention the attack on the Hogwarts Express.

She hadn’t taken the fact well that all four of her children on the train had been facing the attackers with Harry and the rest, or had been creating a distraction so others could flee. And the twins calling her out for being part of the Order of the Phoenix, fighting the Dark Lord, yet lambasting them for doing the same hadn’t helped at all. Ron shuddered at the memory. That had been a terrible evening. But they had come through it stronger. Family came first.

“Our owl orders are still doing well,” George assured her.

“And there’s the interest from the Ministry. I dare say they’ll not have to rely on customers from the street for a while yet,” Percy cut in. Ron hadn’t seen him arrive. He hadn’t seen Ginny leave either, but she was now talking to Neville and his grandmother next to the ‘Dream Drops’ display case.

“What’s the Ministry interested in?” Mum looked both proud and curious.

“They’re probably interested in some of the products they used against the Death Eaters,” Ron explained, then winced when he saw the reaction to him bringing up the attack. Too much analyzing the battle with Sirius and Remus and his friends had made him forget that his family didn’t talk about it.

After a second, Fred nodded. “Yes. We’ve got orders for the Peruvian Darkness Powder, the Screaming Saucers, and most of our bigger fireworks.”

“We might even research a few products that aren’t jokes,” George added, and for a moment, everyone was silent when the implications sank in.

“Everyone is doing their part, as it should be,” dad stated, looking first at mum, then at the rest of his family, before changing the topic. “So, what does this box do?” He pointed at a colorful box.

“Oh, that’s a Skiving Snackbox. A well-sized range of fake illnesses and their remedies, if you want to skive off school,” Fred gleefully explained. “Or chores at home,” he added with a wink.

Further explanations were interrupted by the arrival of what looked like everyone from No 12, Grimmauld Place.

“Harry!” Ron said. He would have greeted Hermione as enthusiastically, but they were in public since the crowd was made up of close friends of the twins, and not of the couple. So he simply nodded at the witch while his mum and dad greeted Sirius cordially, and wished there were less people around. Not for long though - he was proud of his brothers’ achievements, and wished them a successful opening, after all.

*****

“You wish to study Dementors?”

Hermione Granger didn’t flinch under the Headmaster’s questioning gaze, but it was a close thing. “Yes, sir. Their habits and powers might provide insight into souls and soul magic.”

He didn’t answer right away, he simply ran his hand through his beard and summoned a lemon drop from the bowl on his desk. Fawkes trilled, trilled again, and when the phoenix didn’t get any, stuck his head under his wing and apparently sulked.

“Those creatures have allied with the Dark Lord, so it might be nigh impossible to study one, much less do so safely,” he finally stated.

“I know, sir. But even second-hand reports from experts might offer useful insights and ideas.” That was as far as she was going to hint at her plans.

Dumbledore’s gaze seemed to grow even more intense, and she defiantly raised her chin. She wasn’t planning to do something unforgivable. The Ministry had used Dementors to suck out the souls of criminals for centuries, and if they were allowed to do it, then she could do the same against the Dark Lord. If her idea worked.

“I see.” Dumbledore briefly closed his eyes and seemed to sag a bit in his seat. When he met her eyes again, he looked tired. “Given the current problems, it might behove us to know more about those creatures.” He had to know what she was planning, but it didn’t look like he’d admit it.

Hermione could live with that. What mattered what that she succeeded in her task. For Harry.

“Ebenezer Renquirt is the Ministry’s foremost expert on Dementors. He was compromised last year, though, and since then he has been under much closer surveillance and scrutiny. That means that approaching him would endanger the secrecy needed for this.”

Hermione refrained from protesting that the risk would be worth it, and simply nodded.

“I do have some contacts with almost as much experience - or at least, an equivalent library on the topic - though. Given the fact that those creatures are among the Dark Lord’s forces and how difficult casting the Patronus Charm is, it wouldn’t look out of place if I asked for access to research easier counter-measures.”

He had to be talking about the Department of Mysteries! Would she be able to accompany him there?

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, since the Headmaster started chuckling. “I fear I have to disappoint you, Miss Granger. While I might get access to those tomes, thanks to my position and reputation, taking you with me would be out of the question.”

For a moment, anger filled Hermione. All that knowledge, hidden away! Reserved for a select few, out of the reach of a mere muggleborn witch! She controlled herself though.

Dumbledore continued: “Indeed, even making the suggestion would cause you to come to the attention of a number of people who might be a bit too zealous to understand that sometimes, the end justifies quite dark means. Trust extended towards me would not be extended towards a young witch or wizard still in school. That view is justified, somewhat, given that the most recent example of a young prodigy researching such topics was Tom Riddle.”

Hermione gasped. “You mean they would…?”

The Headmaster nodded. “They do not know you as I do. And should they know that Harry has a connection to Tom’s through his scar, they might assume he is being corrupted, or even controlled by the Dark Lord. And through him, yourself.”

Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine as she realised the danger Harry and herself would be facing should this become known by the Unspeakables. She lowered her eyes. “I didn’t consider that, Headmaster.” Her stupidity and ignorance could have caused Harry’s death!

“Do not berate yourself, Miss Granger. The inner workings of the Department of Mysteries, their purpose even, is not known to the public. Nor is it set in stone, so to speak - depending on who makes up its staff, their goals and means can vary widely.”

Hermione smiled cynically. “That description fits the entire Ministry, sir. Too much seems to depend on the whims of individuals, not on laws.”

“I would not call it whims, since custom and tradition can often be much harder to change than laws, but I do agree that Wizarding Britain has been shaped by individuals ever since the time of the founders. Though - was not that the case for Muggle Britain as well? Outstanding individuals played crucial roles throughout history.”

Hermione had to admit that, if grudgingly. “They did. And yet the rule of law is paramount. And muggles at least try to keep the laws up to date.”

“But once again, Muggle Britain is less judicious in that than other muggle countries. Tradition and custom play a larger role than in countries with a written constitution.” Dumbledore sent a few grapes towards Fawkes, which circled around the still sulking bird.

“And yet Muggle Britain’s constitution is quite established, while Wizarding Britain still lacks that fundamental agreement. And given how thoroughly the knowledge of magic was erased from the muggle world, I cannot help but fear that even wizarding traditions might not be as old as they are claimed to be.” Maybe that was why History of Magic was taught by a ghost and never seemed to change.

“A good point, Miss Granger. To change history means to change the present, after all. Though what magic makes possible, magic can guard against.” The Headmaster smiled at her as if she had just answered a difficult question in a lesson.

“That’s true, sir. But with the small size of Wizarding Britain, it takes less to affect it. Less magic, and fewer individuals. Far easier for mistakes to be made, and not get corrected.” And, privately, she thought that the wizarding public was far less critical than the muggle one as well. Too prone to follow blindly whoever cried the loudest.

“It is hard to argue against that, given our current situation, and yet it’s also far easier to change for the better with fewer people. I prefer to remain optimistic.” Albus flicked his wand, and a lemon drop sped towards Fawkes, who reacted in an instant and gobbled it up, together with the grapes.

Hermione couldn’t disagree with that. She had to hope for the best as well, given her and Harry’s situation. She nodded. “Leaving that aside, if I’m not to be allowed into that library, how can I access the tomes then?”

“I’ll be making copies.”

“Is that allowed?” Hermione asked. The Headmaster had spoken as if copying works presumably protected by the best spells the Department of Mysteries could muster was easy. It was probably easy, for him, Hermione realised. Suddenly, focusing on Curse-Breaking looked a lot more appealing than focusing on spellcrafting.

“I could just as well use my pensieve to reread any tome I’ve read and have a dictaquill write it down. That would take more time than we can spare though,” Dumbledore said with the barest hint of a sly smile.

Hermione decided that she really wanted a pensieve. Though maybe it might be possible to create a spell that allowed the caster to copy memories into a blank book. Or maybe there was a way to create a portable pensieve, like a portable television… She forced herself to focus on the topic at hand again, and blushed slightly when she noticed the gentle smile on Dumbledore’s face, who probably knew all about her thoughts right then. “I see. That’s quite a … pragmatic outlook.”

“Indeed. I should have the books you require before you leave to meet your parents.” Dumbledore pointed his wand over his shoulder and an old, thick tome flew from one of the shelves at the back of his office, landing gently on the desk. “You can take this book with you right now though. It contains a detailed report about the first appearances of the Dementors in the 1300s, up until the time they moved to Azkaban. I always found that having a solid grasp on the history of a subject both facilitated its study and helped to avoid overlooking important aspects.”

“Thank you sir!” Hermione eagerly summoned the book towards her. She wanted to skim it right then, but reluctantly stashed it in one of the expanded pockets of her robe .

“Is there anything else to discuss?” The Headmaster was looking at her over his reading glasses. She couldn’t tell if he meant the question rhetorically, or if he knew or at least suspect something.

“Ah… there is one more thing, sir.” Hermione took a deep breath. “As you know, we will be meeting my parents in the Caribbean.”

Once again his gaze grew more intense, and she realised he already knew what she was about to say.

*****

“Alright, does everyone have all their baggage?”

“Yes.” Harry Potter patted the pocket of his robe where his trunk was stored in in response to his godfather’s question. He caught Hermione peering into her pocket before answering herself, and grinned. As if she would forget her trunk, after packing it so carefully, and after double-checking her lists. And yet she’d worry. Part of her charm.

Valérie, Chantal, Laure and Eugénie nodded as well. Between the four Veela and himself, Sirius had deemed Harry safe enough to travel abroad. Neither Nymphadora nor Remus would be coming with them. Nymphadora because she was far too busy preparing for her wedding, scheduled for the end of July, Remus because of his furry little problem. Harry thought the man could use a vacation, especially with the increasing hostility towards werewolves after so many of them had joined Voldemort, but it was the older wizard’s own decision.

“Good, the portkey is scheduled to be activated in three minutes!” Sirius checked his watch.

Harry wasn’t looking forward to using it. Travelling to Paris and then to Sofia the previous summer had been bad enough, and it was a far longer trip to Port Royal, the capital of Magical Jamaica. If only they were flying! A plane would take even longer than a portkey, but it would be a far more agreeable ride.

But Sirius had balked at the idea of spending hours in a ‘metal contraption that a bit of accidental magic could utterly wreck’, and Hermione had backed him up, citing numerous ways to destroy a plane using magic. Harry didn’t think the Death Eaters knew enough about muggles to pull any of those plans off - a few of them were so tricky, and would have made him wonder what Hermione had been thinking, if he hadn’t known her so well - but he couldn’t prevail against both his godfather and his girlfriend, not if they were thinking about his safety first and foremost.

Of course, without Dumbledore arranging for an anonymous international portkey, and fake identities thanks to his contacts abroad, taking a plane would have been safer. And Harry wouldn’t have to dye his hair, muggle style, and wear makeup over his scar. Though Hermione made a nice-looking blonde, he had to admit.

So, he was facing a nausea-inducing trip. An auspicious start for their vacation, if he did say so himself. Not that he’d say that out loud - Hermione was looking forward to see her parents, who’d take a break from their cruise for a month, and he’d rather bite his tongue than make her feel guilty and ruin it for her.

“Alright, gather round! It’s going to be a wild ride!” Sirius grinned as he presented the short rope that would transport them across the Atlantic. Harry shot his godfather a dark look, then touched the rope, taking a deep breath.

An instant later, he was whirling around himself.

Harry didn’t know how long the portkey took. It had felt like hours, at least to him. He belly-flopped on the cushioned floor, as he had expected. At least he wasn’t feeling ill enough to need the bucket that appeared in front of him, even if his legs shook some when he stood up.

Sirius, who had been whooping in apparent joy for most of the trip, was already up - if he had not arrived standing anyway - and looking around. As were his girlfriends, but as half-bird creatures, that was to be expected. Or so Harry told himself.

Hermione though, lying on the floor, was looking rather green in the face and taking deep breaths.

“Come on, get up, Miss! We’ll need to clear the chamber for the next arrivals! I can levitate you if you can’t stand yet!” Sirius announced cheerfully, his wand already out.

The muggleborn witch shot Harry’s godfather a glare while she stood up with his help. “I’ll manage,” she muttered. Harry didn’t mention that he had voted to take a plane - she looked a bit too miserable to rub it in. And she knew a few too many hexes to risk it.

A pair of guards awaited them outside the chamber, both wearing loose white trousers and shirts, with sashes in green, gold and black wrapped around their waists. “Welcome to Magical Jamaica. Please proceed to customs,” the taller one said, with the bored air of someone who had said that far too often already to still care.

“Of course!” Sirius responded, and led the group towards the door indicated by the man’s gesture.

“It really looks like a colonial building of the 17th century.” Hermione had recovered enough to study the architecture on the way. “I read that the Magical Quarter survived the earthquake that officially sank Port Royal, and used it to help implement the Statute of Secrecy, which went into effect at the same time.”

“Are we actually under the sea?” Laure asked.

“According to ‘The History of the Magical New World’, yes. Though ‘Magical Sights Worth Seeing’ claims that the enclave has the space warped around it, and is actually on sea level,” the young witch went on.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Sirius cut in. “We’re not staying in the town, after all!”

Harry thought it did matter if they would be drowned by the sea should the spells fail, or not, but didn’t think speculating about such an eventuality was the smartest or most polite thing to do right after arriving in the town. Besides, Sirius was right - they’d meet the Grangers at a private villa Sirius had rented for the vacation.

They’d not spend all their time there, or even in muggle Jamaica, of course. They had plans for Magical Jamaica. Plans not everyone might agree with, but that couldn’t be helped.

*****

“Mum! Dad!”

Hermione Granger rushed at her parents as soon as she spotted them. It had been too long since she had seen them last! She hugged her mother, almost tackling her to the ground, then felt her father’s arms close around the two of them, patting her back. She didn’t keep count how long they remained like that, she simply enjoyed the reunion with her parents. “I missed you!”

“We missed you as well, honey!” her mother said, probably with as many tears in her eyes as Hermione had.

“Oh, yes. It’s been so long, I forgot how you looked. I thought you had brown hair…” her father said, pointedly looking at her currently blonde and straight hair.

“Ah… that’s for the disguise.” Hermione smiled, but didn’t let go of her mother. “We’re here under fake names.” Like her parents.

“Fake identities for you, for us, for everyone…” Her father shook his head. “Well, it’s a decent reason to dye your hair, at least. Better than your boyfriend preferring blondes,” he added with a slight smirk.

“Dad! I wouldn’t do that!” Hermione protested. Well, she wouldn’t, unless it was needed. Or if she liked it as well.

“Harry prefers Hermione,” Sirius cheerfully cut in.

“Welcome, Sirius,” her mum said, nodding at the wizard. “I’d offer to give you a tour of the house, though to be honest, it would feel weird, since you paid the rent for the villa.”

“Picked it out as well - the notification of us having rented it came as a bit of a surprise,” Hermione’s father commented.

“Don’t worry about it. Just another measure to improve our security.” Sirius waved his wand in a dismissive gesture.

Her parents seemed to accept that. Well, they had accepted the paid-for World Cruise too. “Let’s get you settled, and then Hermione can tell us all about her year,” her dad said.

Hermione took the hint, and released her mother from her grip. She hoped she looked embarrassed about having held on like a limpet for a bit too long, instead of feeling guilty for not planning to tell her parents all about what had happened. She didn’t want them to worry after all, especially not when they couldn’t do anything to help her.

*****

“... and did you know that after the Statute of Secrecy went into effect, Magical Jamaica was one of the first colonies to achieve their independence from Wizarding Britain? The wizards among the Maroons outnumbered the British wizards left on Jamaica, thanks to having served as a safe haven for fugitive wizards for decades already, and conquered the island in 1752, when a Goblin Rebellion in Britain prevented the Ministry from sending help to the garrison.”

Sirius Black glanced at his godson while Hermione gave a lesson in Jamaica’s history, magical and muggle, to her parents, who seemed to be listening with rapt attention. Maybe the thirst for knowledge was in the witch’s blood. Harry was paying attention too, but from what Sirius could see, he was focusing more on the witch’s body than her words. Maybe the two would finally do the deed during this vacation. Given the danger they all were in, it was stupid to delay what everyone knew would happen!

In Sirius’s opinion, it was a perfect setup: A young couple, a month in the tropics, in a luxurious villa with a private beach… Even if the muggle bikinis were a bit conservative, as all things muggle, that, and the presence of the girl’s parents, simply added a bit of a challenge, in his opinion. Maybe he should have a word with Harry, explain some things… Sirius smiled when he remembered how he had slept with Mandy Finbottom in the witch’s parents’ bedroom while they were at a Yule Ball… or would have, if he had been able to remember more than that he had done it.

“Troubling thoughts, cherie?” Valérie’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

He turned his head, and smiled at the young Veela moving towards him, a tray with a few drinks floating behind her. “Just another lost memory.” He pointed his wand at the tray, and one drink flew towards him.

“Ah.” Valerie sat down in his lap, one drink with a straw hovering near her head while the tray continued towards the others present at the pool. She knew what he was talking about, and she knew he wasn’t quite as casual about it as he acted. But she also understood that they were on a vacation with his godson, and it wouldn’t do to ruin it with his own problems. She placed a kiss on his lips - almost chaste, for her - and whispered. “We’ll ‘ave to make more and better memories then.”

“That’s a good idea.” He ran his hands over her bare back. The smooth skin showed no sign of the curse damage to the wing that would grow out from there when she transformed. He was certain it would have been different if the damage had been to her arm - if Padfoot hurt his paw, Sirius’s hand would be hurt as well.

His fingers must have lingered a bit too long, for he felt her stiffen some. “I’ll be able to fly again, soon,” she whispered.

“You will.” She had to. She would. She was keeping her daily exercises up, even during their vacation, if not quite as stringently as under the supervision of her therapist.

He glanced over at his godson again, and caught Harry turning his head away. The boy had been staring at them, he knew. And not because he was ogling his godfather’s Veela girlfriend, but because he was concerned about the two of them.

He really had to have a talk with the boy, Sirius thought. It was his duty as Harry’s godfather to worry about him, not the other way around.

*****

Harry Potter smiled when he saw Padfoot playing on the beach. His godfather was chasing a frisbee Valérie, Chantal, and Laure were moving around between them with their wands. Eugénie was sitting at the pool, supposedly ‘resting’, though Harry was certain she was keeping guard. Even with that reminder of the war at home, and the danger they were all in, he was happy to see Sirius acting so carefree.

“He’s getting better,” Hermione commented next to him, putting the book she had been reading down.

“Yes.” Finally.

“He’s still got a way to go though,” Hermione added.

“Therapy wouldn’t help him much, if at all. He thinks that’s just for ‘crazy people’,” Harry glanced at the book in her lap. He knew it was about dementors. Harry shuddered just thinking about them, and he didn’t know how Sirius would react, should he realise just what Hermione was studying.

Hermione frowned at him. “The Headmaster enchanted it. Sirius won’t be able to read it.”

“I know.” And he still didn’t like it. They were terrible creatures, and the thought that she was researching them filled him with dread. She was probably planning to use them. All he could think about was that moment back in third year, when a horde of the monsters had attacked them. If not for his Patronus Charm...

The witch closed the book, and slid it into her expanded bag.

Harry suppressed the sudden guilt he felt at that. He knew she was doing this for him.

The young muggleborn leaned back and met his eyes. “Did he ask you again if we have slept together?”

He grimaced and looked away. “He hasn’t just asked. He has hinted rather strongly that we’re ‘wasting time we could be spending together’. What about your parents?”

“They haven’t asked or said anything about us being intimate.”

“Oh?” That sounded good.

“Which is very much unlike them. I’d have expected a lecture about safe sex, or at least some teasing comments.”

“Oh.” That didn’t sound good.

“Yes. And Valérie wanted to give me ‘tips’.”

“Tips?”

“You know, about enjoying your first time. As a witch.”

“That must have been embarrassing.” Probably as embarrassing as Sirius’s lecture.

“More informative, actually.” The witch smiled at him. She had listened to the tips? Of course she had! Hermione wouldn’t refuse knowledge, not even that kind.

He didn’t know what to say while his imagination ran wild. His face must have betrayed at least some of his thoughts though, since he noticed she was blushing.

Or, he thought, with a suddenly dry throat, she was having similar thoughts.

He coughed and said: “Let’s go swimming!” They needed a distraction right now.

“Alright.”

*****

Swimming, and diving, in the warm waters of the Caribbean was vastly different from swimming in the Black Lake in Scotland, Hermione found out. The tropical sea provided much better visibility than the murky lake, and the fishes and other fauna were more colorful too.

Both herself and Harry were using Bubble-Head Charms to explore the sea near their beach - under the eyes of Eugénie, who was flying above them. She wouldn’t join them in the water unless there was an emergency, but whether this was to give them some illusion of privacy, or because she didn’t like diving was hard to say. Fleur hadn’t had any special trouble with the second task, so it wasn’t something related to being a Veela.

The young witch didn’t care either way - she was having fun chasing small schools of fish, and playing a sort of tag game with Harry, with stolen kisses as prizes. There weren’t any ruins, like in Port Royal, but the shallow sea floor here had its own hidden attractions and mysteries.

Just when she was about to swim closer to a large field of seaweed, Harry shot in front of her, using the Supercavitation spell he had used to win the second task in the Triwizard Tournament. For a moment she felt anger - that was cheating! Then she realised he wasn’t playing anymore, but pointing at the seaweed. She didn’t see anything, but she wasn’t the youngest seeker in a hundred years. Hermione mouthed “What?” at her boyfriend, and he pushed his head towards hers until their Bubble-Head Charms overlapped and they could talk to each other more easily, without shouting.

“I think I saw a siren.”

Hermione almost gasped. A siren, here? Even though Jamaica did have a small population, most of them were said to be living near Port Royal, using the charms hiding the magical town from muggles for their own benefits. She drew her wand and slipped her free hand into the enchanted pocket on her bikini bottom, where she had stored a number of emergency supplies. Sirens had a reputation of luring sailors to their doom, and while that was likely overblown like so much else, the species was known to have a penchant for violence if provoked. And they didn’t like Veela.

Harry and herself waited, watching the field of seaweed, but apart from a few small fishes nothing else emerged from it. Still, Hermione decided to give the area a wide berth, just in case this was territory claimed by a siren. There wasn’t any reason to go looking for trouble, after all. Even or especially with a Veela flying as a guard above them.

“Let’s return to the surface,” she told Harry.

Her boyfriend nodded, then pulled her closer to him, until she was pressed against his body, and surrounded by the air bubbles providing the spell’s effect. As she had expected, and Harry had told her, it was a very distracting experience without a suit covering her whole body.

Not quite as distracting as Harry shooting through the water at high speed, with her hanging onto him though.

They did reach the beach without trouble, and in record time, but Hermione needed some time to calm down afterwards.

*****

If there was one thing Harry Potter loved most of their vacation so far, it was that his family were using fake identities, so he and Hermione didn’t have to act like Patron and Retainer in public, but could be a teenage couple in love. There was no pressure from society, no one looking disapprovingly at them for being out for a stroll in Port Royal’s Magical Quarter. Which was actually bigger than the muggle village.

After two days of grueling apparition lessons, walking around with his girlfriend on his arm was an even more enjoyable experience as well, even though both Hermione and himself had mastered it. With or despite Sirius’s help. Harry could still hear his godfather’s voice, telling him to be completely determined to reach the destination, and move deliberately, not hastily. Or Hermione reciting a small book’s worth of instructions verbatim. And he still wasn’t certain if Hermione leaving her robes while apparating away had actually been an accident, or a prank.

He had his arm wrapped around Hermione’s waist and both of them were wearing robes in the local style as they were walking down the main street in the afternoon, past various shops and bars and the odd street musician and food stall. Just a normal tourist couple, exploring the old pirate town. With his ‘parents’ in tow.

He glanced behind him, where Sirius and Valérie were following them. His godfather was grinning widely at him. Before Harry could comment though, Hermione spoke up and tugged at his arm: “There it is!”

Harry followed her gaze, and spotted a worn sign in a narrow side alley: ‘Mr. Smith’s Used Books & Curiosa’. That was the bookshop Dumbledore had recommended. Hermione was already doing her best imitation of a train engine pulling him towards the shop’s door.

The inside of the shop smelled like old parchment and dusty paper - and marihuana. The ‘magical weed’ was widely used on Jamaica, and not solely for religious ceremonies. Hermione released his arm and made a beeline to the clerk at the back of the shop. Harry followed her at a slower pace, restraining from rubbing his arm.

The witch smiled at the middle-aged wizard there. “Hello! We’re looking for books on ‘sympathetic magic’!” Which was commonly known as ‘Voodoo’, even if Hermione had explained that that was not really the same thing. Just very close.

“That would be this shelf there, Miss.” The man pointed at the shelf to his right.

Hermione shook her head, her currently blond hair flying back and forth. “I’m looking for more informative and rarer books.”

Harry saw how the other wizard stiffened at hearing that - and even more so when Sirius and Valérie entered right then. He was also quite certain that Hermione was rolling her eyes at the man’s - in Harry’s opinion quite understandable - reluctance to point them towards books which were illegal in most of the Magical World, and were considered shady even in the Caribbean. The houngans were more feared than respected, or so he had heard.

Fortunately, a small sum of galleons from Sirius made the reluctance vanish before Hermione could grow exasperated. The clerk opened a hidden door at the back, revealing another room full of books. When he saw Hermione’s reaction to that, Harry was both amused and jealous - of those books.

After half an hour, Hermione had picked half a dozen books on Voodoo, and the clerk was ringing up her purchases while the witch was already happily skimming through the first one while Harry was impatiently waiting - just like normal tourists.

Before the clerk had finished handling their purchases though, a dark-skinned wizard man in a bone-white robe with short, grey hair entered, interrupting the man.

“Hello, Jebediah.”

“H-Hello, M-Mister B-Blagrove.”

“I’m here for my order.” The man spoke in a whisper that still seemed to fill the room.

“A… of c-course, s-sir!” The clerk dropped Hermione’s last purchase and rushed through another hidden door, presumably to fetch whatever the man wanted, though Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d have simply fled the building. He glanced at the door, and saw half a dozen people waiting outside the shop. That wasn’t a good sign.

The man turned around, smiling, and seemed to notice Hermione for the first time - or rather the book she was holding. “Quite an interesting tome, Miss…?”

“Wilkinson,” Hermione answered, giving her fake name.

The man nodded, a polite smile on his face. Harry was about to step up to Hermione, just to show that she was with him, under his protection, when his scar erupted with pain.

*****

Hermione Granger whirled around when she heard Harry scream, and gasped. Her boyfriend was on the floor, blood flowing from his scar, wiping away the makeup that had been covering it, while he was thrashing in pain! Sirius was moving towards them, followed by Valérie. Her first impulse was to stun Harry. End his torment until whatever dark ritual Voldemort was doing was over. She didn’t do that though. As much as she hated it, they needed to know what the Dark Lord was doing. So instead of a stunner, she cast a Body-Binding Curse and a Silencing Charm.

“We need to get home!” she yelled at Sirius, cutting off whatever he was about to say. She glanced over her shoulder at the the man in the white robes, Blagrove, who had scared the clerk so much. The wizard was staring at them, with an unreadable expression. Hermione grabbed the last book and dropped a few galleons on the counter while Sirius vanished with Harry. She vanished the blood on the floor, then focused on the villa’s apparition area. An instant later, she appeared there, followed by Valérie.

While they rushed Harry to his room, she mentally berated herself. She had been so stupid - she had forgotten about the time difference between Britain and Jamaica! The full moon would have already risen back home while it was still daytime here. She should have expected that Voldemort would conduct another ritual, even if he had skipped the last full moon!

And now, not only was Harry suffering, but someone - someone rather sinister-looking - had seen him collapse and bleed! If his secret got out...

And it was all her fault! She should have known!

*****


	42. Jamaican Affairs

**Chapter 42: Jamaican Affairs**

_He wrinkled his nose at the stench of burning fur and flesh that rose from the bound animal on the marble altar. The restraints were cutting deeply into the werewolf’s limbs, the silver they were inlaid with burning its skin wherever they touched it. He could have magically adjusted them, but why should he have bothered? The beast would be dead soon enough, and a Silencing Charm worked well enough to keep it quiet. The stench though… that hadn’t been as bad during the last ritual, and he wondered why this was the case. It wasn’t bad enough to warrant a Bubble-Head Charm though, just… unpleasant._

_The lights floating around the circle that surrounded them were lit already, shining under the light of the full moon. There were no bands of runes appearing between them though. Instead, a crystal ball was floating next to the creature’s head, dull and dim - so far._

_The werewolf was shaking its head back and forth, spittle flying around. If not for the charms on his robe, some would have hit him. Disgusting! His Bella was already taking care of it, though - a flick of her wand had the monster gagged, and the sight of its eyes rolling around briefly amused him._

_He smiled at his lover, then gripped the silver knife and approached the werewolf. This time he had some experience, and he cut deeply, and surely, quickly exposing and removing its heart. Instead of holding the heart up, towards the moon, he touched it to the globe, which started to glow brightly while runes appeared, floating around it._

_Too brightly, he realised. Far too brightly!_

_He whirled around, towards Bella._

_“Protego Maxima!”_

_The dark witch stared at him with surprise when he grabbed her arm. She shouted in alarm when the globe behind him exploded and the night was turned to day. He managed to apparate away, taking Bella with him, right before his shield was shattered by a blast fueled with the energy gathered by the ritual._

_Brief relief, then anger filled him. He had failed._

Harry Potter woke up with a gasp, drenched in sweat and panting. He shuddered, hugging himself. That had been… terrible. He didn’t know what would have happened if Voldemort had died with him sharing his mind. He didn’t want to know, he realised - and immediately felt guilty for being happy that he hadn’t found out today. That Voldemort hadn’t been killed.

“Harry!”

He felt arms wrap around him, a body was pressed against his, blonde hair flew into his face… blonde? He almost pushed the girl away until he remembered that Hermione had dyed and straightened her hair as a disguise.

Hermione! He held her, buried his face into her shoulder and neck, until he had calmed down.

“I’m sorry, Harry! I should have thought of the time difference, and the full moon… “ Hermione whispered.

He pulled back and shook his head. “No. It’s not your fault. No one thought of it.” She didn’t look like she believed him. “Not even Dumbledore.” That seemed to get through his girlfriend’s guilt. Somewhat at least. So he went on: “I’ve seen Voldemort’s ritual. He sacrificed another werewolf, but something went wrong, and he was almost killed.”

As expected, that kind of information served to distract Hermione from her guilt, and he was soon facing questions that made him wish for a pensieve.

*****

Sirius Black stared at Harry after he had finished recounting what he had seen during his ‘vision’. To think his godson had to live through those evil rituals as if he was the one performing them… he shook his head slightly, trying to focus on something less nauseating. “Dumbledore needs a copy of those memories.”

“I wish we had Hedwig with us…” Harry muttered. Hermione, sitting next to him on his bed, patted his arm. Sirius knew the girl had stayed at his godson’s side ever since they had returned from Port Royal. It was just the two teenagers and himself - Dumbledore had been quite clear on the urgent need to keep Harry’s connection to Voldemort a secret, and Sirius agreed completely. Even the cover story they had prepared, of Harry being a seer, wouldn’t help much if Voldemort ever found out.

“We didn’t take her with us for the same reason sending her back wouldn’t be a good idea: She’s too conspicuous,” he explained. Sales of snowy owls had increased after Harry had gotten Hedwig, but it hadn’t been more than a handful. The beautiful owls still stuck out wherever they flew.

“We could rent an owl here. Or maybe hire a courier,” Hermione proposed. “We could even mail it through the muggle post. Though that could take a long time, unless we pay a lot. Which might draw attention to it. The police might suspect there are drugs in the package.”

Sirius didn’t know much about the muggle post or police, but a rented owl was simply not safe enough. “I can contact Moony on the mirror, he can call Dumbledore, but....” The two teenagers nodded. They knew as well as he did that it was the night of the full moon, and while Wolfsbane would ensure Remus didn’t lose his mind, he couldn’t exactly talk in his furry state.

“I think the secrecy is more important than informing Dumbledore right now. A few hours won’t make much of a difference,” Harry said.

“Alright.” Sirius took out his watch to check the time. It was currently 8 PM, so that meant…

“The moon will have set in London at 01:39 AM Jamaican local time,” Hermione stated, closing a small leather-bound notebook.

He frowned at the young with briefly, which didn’t impress her at all, but made Harry smile, then leaned back in his seat, summoning a drink. “Thank you. So, almost six more hours. But Moony will need some time to recover, after he transforms back.” The rum burned in his throat. Not quite firewhiskey, but close.

“Best call him in the morning. Our morning.” Harry looked like he could use some time to recover himself.

“I think rest is a good idea...” Sirius started.

“There’s one thing…” Hermione interrupted him. “That man who saw Harry’s episode… he saw the scar bleed.” The young witch bit her lower lip.

“You did vanish the blood spilled.” That was the first thing he had asked, after they had gotten back to the villa. “With that taken care of, there shouldn’t be too much of a danger. Even if the scar has been recognized, Jamaica is not exactly a friendly country for Death Eaters.” Otherwise they’d have met up somewhere else with the Grangers.

“Yes.” She didn’t look like she was really agreeing. “Just… his expression, right before we apparated out…”

“Who was he, anyway?” Harry asked.

“The clerk called him ‘Mister Blagrove’, and was very afraid of him,” Hermione added.

Sirius frowned. He really didn’t want the kids to worry, but he wasn’t about to lie to them. “He was probably a houngan.”

“Aren’t those dark wizards?” Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Technically, Britain considers them dark wizards. But as I told you before, Britain’s definition of ‘dark’ is somewhat arbitrary. They once considered all of Jamaica’s wizards ‘dark’, right after the island had won its independence from Britain. Relations were quite strained for almost 200 years.” The animagus snorted. “If not for the distance involved, and the fact that by the time Britain was able to muster enough wands to have a shot at invading, the rest of the Magical New World was not friendly towards Britain either, there might have been another war.”

“And we’ve come here for a vacation?” Harry shook his head.

“Relations improved a lot in the last fifty years thanks to Dumbledore,” Sirius explained.

“‘The History of the Magical New World’ claims that as well, but doesn’t go into details. It only mentions ‘diplomatic efforts’.” Hermione pursed her lips as she looked at Sirius.

The older wizard snorted. “He defeated Grindelwald. That scared the houngans into reforming some of their more questionable practises.”

The muggleborn witch had an eager glint in her eyes. “What exactly did they do?”

“Do you know what zombies are?” He took another sip from his rum.

“In the Caribbean, it generally means people under the control of a wizard. Unlike the victims of the Imperius, they are reduced to puppets, almost like golems. They lose any will of their own, and any sense of self-preservation. Unlike the Imperius, it also requires a rare potion, though it is said that the potion can be used in a ritual using sympathetic magic, so it doesn’t need to be imbibed,” Hermione answered as if she was in a lesson at Hogwarts. “In Europe, ‘zombie’ has been used lately as a synonym for inferi, probably an influence of muggle horror movies, though so far that hasn’t been proven. In the Americas…”

Sirius held up a hand before she could cover the American and Asian versions. “We’re in the Caribbean, your first definition applies here.”

“So the houngans used to create zombies?” Harry frowned. “What scale are we talking about?”

Sirius smiled. His godson had good instincts. The ICW wouldn’t have cared about a few zombies. “A massive scale. My family was very interested in the Dark Arts, as you know, and they did some research in the 19th century. Which, incidentally, led to the end of one particularly curious branch of the family.” He noticed the two teenagers staring at him, and coughed. Maybe he shouldn’t have grinned when he said that. But he had seen the notes of their research, and their outlines and plans in the library. “According to what they found out, ever since their independence, the houngans have kept an army of zombies ready to be activated in case there was an invasion.”

“An army of muggles. It wouldn’t make sense using wizards for that, they couldn’t cast spells as zombies…” Hermione trailed off, her eyes wide. “But how could they…. rituals.”

“Exactly. Officially, zombies are hard to create, using a rare potion and some blood or hair from the victim. A bad thing, but, like the Imperius, more of a personal threat. Unofficially? There’re rumors that with the right sacrifice, the population of entire villages can be turned into zombies.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Language!”

Sirius chuckled. “Anyway, with Dumbledore defeating Grindelwald despite that Dark Lord’s heavy use of inferi, the houngans realised that their main threat wasn’t that effective anymore. And since Grindelwald had conquered a number of countries in Magical Europe, and invaded a few more, there was a movement in the ICW to act a bit more preemptively to prevent another such Dark Lord from rising. Jamaica wasn’t the only country that suddenly felt like reforming. At least enough to not look like the home for the next Dark Lord who might try his hand at invasions.”

“Why didn’t anyone stop Voldemort then, when he started his first war?” Harry looked angry.

“Various reasons. By the time he went active, people had slid back into isolationism again. Most of the countries outside Europe, but a number of European ones as well, had never been really happy with the thought that other countries could meddle in their internal affairs. Unlike Grindelwald, Voldemort didn’t push an international agenda. At least not openly. And since Dumbledore was opposing him, most probably thought he didn’t need any help. So, when everyone realised that Voldemort was a threat to Dumbledore, many were too afraid to get involved - in case the Dark Lord won. And some certainly hoped that the two would kill each other off.” Sirius shook his head.

“Great. We’re facing a Dark Lord for the second time because people don’t learn from history.” It was hard to tell if Hermione was more offended by the lack of learning, or the Dark Lord, or so the animagus thought.

“Back to the matter at hand. If that was a houngan, what does that mean for us?” Harry patted Hermione’s hand as he looked at his godfather.

“Well… it depends on the individual. Port Royal may be the capital of Magical Jamaica, with the Governor’s Palace and the administration, but the actual power is held by the Houngan leaders of the various communities.” Sirius smiled apologetically at Hermione.

The young witch was looking very frustrated. “Why isn’t that in any of the books I read? Does the Magical World have an aversion towards writing down the truth? It’s the same with the laws and customs in Britain!” Sirius thought only Harry’s hand on her thigh and his arm around her shoulders kept her from jumping up and pacing in frustration.

“Well, houngans also have a reputation of using dark rituals to deal with their enemies from afar. Most writers wouldn’t want to chance offending them by spilling their secrets in public.” Sirius’s explanation didn’t seem to help much in calming the witch down.

He decided to leave that task to his godson, as well give him the privacy needed for it. “I’m heading to bed now, so I can get up early and call Moony.” Grinning, he winked and added: “The privacy charms will last for the night, and you won’t be disturbed, so take advantage of that!”

“Sirius!”

*****

“That impossible man!” Hermione huffed. She was still angry. At the Magical World, who let books be published full of false information, while the truth was only known to a select few. At the Dark Lord, for inflicting more pain on Harry. At Sirius, for inappropriate jokes. And at herself, for failing Harry.

Harry patted her back, smiling. “He means well.”

The witch felt guilty again. Here Harry’s godfather managed to cheer him up, and she was ranting about it. “Sorry. I’m just… the whole thing worries me.”

“It worries me too.” Harry pulled her in his lap. “But as Sirius said, we’re still pretty safe. You heard what he said about the houngans fearing Dumbledore.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “But he also said the world thinks Voldemort is a match for the Headmaster. If this houngan thinks he can ally with the Dark Lord…”

“We don’t even know if it was a houngan,” Harry said.

“I think it’s safer to assume it was.” She shuddered. Zombies were worse than she had imagined.

“Well… if you want to learn sympathetic magic, you might need to meet a houngan.” Harry ran his hands over her back in circles.

“Not necessarily.” She had books, some very informative ones.

“Books alone won’t be enough.” Harry didn’t have to add ‘as we just learned today again’; both were thinking it.

She pouted. “They might be enough to learn the principles. I’ll have to create a ritual anyway, it’s not as if I could copy an existing spell.”

“And adapting a ritual would be more work than creating one from scratch, without the arithmantic formula,” Harry agreed. He was taking Arithmancy as well, after all, even if he was not creating spells outside class.

“Exactly. So, maybe avoiding the houngans is a better choice, all things considered.” Apart from the personal risks, there was also the risk to Harry’s reputation to consider. The Boy-Who-Lived having dealings with houngans wouldn’t go over well in Britain, better relations in the last fifty years or not. On the other hand, this might be the key to saving Harry’s life. The Headmaster had to know what she was planning, but hadn’t said anything.

“I’d rather not deal with people who turn others into zombies. European or Caribbean.”

“Yes.” She’d rather not deal with them either. But she would, for Harry.

“At least we now know the Dark Lord makes near-fatal mistakes as well. Imagine if he blew himself up next time.” Harry chuckled.

“It’s too much to hope for, I think. He won’t make the same mistake twice.” Hermione wasn’t a pessimist, just a realist.

“So…”

“So…”

She stared into his eyes. They were alone. Sirius had said the privacy spells would last - and they would, she knew them as well. And her parents were unlikely to disturb them. She leaned forward and kissed him. He responded enthusiastically. For a while, she didn’t think of houngans, or the Dark Lord. Or anything but Harry.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort looked at his sleeping lover as he contemplated what had gone wrong during the ritual that had almost cost him his life. The orb that should have absorbed the power had failed to do so. But had the runes used on it been faulty, wrong, or simply not strong enough to handle it? He would have to craft a stronger orb. Or something else to absorb the power of the curse. The ritual would be useless if he couldn’t use the power of the sacrifice, which meant he needed a way to store it temporarily.

He briefly thought about using it directly, but discarded the idea. He’d have to see his target, which meant the target would be able to see him, and probably disrupt the ritual. And sympathetic magic required a sort of link to the target - which could be very hard to acquire, at least for the targets worth the ritual.

No, a stronger vessel was the answer. Or a weaker sacrifice. But the curse was as powerful on a child as on an adult. At least that was the accepted wisdom. Maybe he should test that.

He ran a few equations in his head, then summoned his Arithmancy and Runes material, to start. It was late, or early, and he hadn’t slept yet. But anything was better than remembering, or dreaming of, how close he had come to dying, no, to losing his body once more.

*****

“‘Mysterious explosion wrecks forest’ - doesn’t that sound like it should be handled by the Department of Mysteries?” Kenneth Fenbrick muttered when he and his partner, Bertha Limmington, had they left the office of the Head of the DMLE. It certainly didn’t sound like a report, more like a headline.

Bertha raised her eyebrows at him. “We need to investigate it first, in case it’s related to a crime.”

He scoffed. “Why is it always us who get the freak cases? Why can’t we get the easy missions, for once?”

His partner missed, again, that he had been asking rhetorically, and answered him: “It’s your fault.”

“What?” He stopped walking and stared at her.

“We got the first few of those ‘weird cases’ because you angered Bones.” She continued walking, and he had to run after her.

“That’s a rumour! A baseless rumour!” It was. He never hit on the witch! Wait… maybe that was why… no. Certainly not!

“Anyway, since we handled those prominent cases, we got more of the same. We’re now considered experts for those kind of cases,” Bertha said with the slightest hint of mirth.

“I knew it! I knew that working so hard was going to come back to bite us in the ass! But did you listen to me? No!” He wasn’t a Hufflepuff, after all.

His partner chuckled at that, and Kenneth smiled. She looked cute when she smiled. Or laughed. Or did anything. He almost reached over, to pat her on the shoulder, but held back.

“Well, let’s see what the Obliviators have left for us.” He took a look at the map, and concentrated on apparating.

*****

“That’s… I wonder what the department for muggle-worthy excuses will make of this,” Kenneth said while staring at the scene of destruction in front of him.

“Meteor strike,” Bertha said, paying attention to the torn and burned remains of grass and brush near her.

“Seriously?” He looked at the felled trees, the razed clearing, the still smoking remains of trees smashed to kindling. “I guess it could fit.”

“They’ll drop some duplicated meteor material, and deepen the crater.”

“What about the fact no one actually saw a meteor?” Muggles had better telescopes than wizards, or so he had heard. It wasn’t as if many wizards cared for Astronomy. If not for a tradition dating back to the founders of the school, it wouldn’t be a subject at Hogwarts.

“It’ll be presented as a small one.” Bertha started to walk towards the centre of the crater, her wand swishing back and forth as she cast several detection spells.

Kenneth followed her, casting some spells of his own, but mostly looking around, trying to imagine how the area had looked before the devastation. “The explosion was reported an hour after the moonrise, right?”

Bertha froze for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

“And there was a clearing here, nothing else?”

“I didn’t find any remains of a structure. Apart from marble and silver fragments, but not enough to account for a house.” She didn’t ask what he was thinking, she simply stared at him.

“Full moon, silver… sounds like a ritual. Probably went wrong.” It wasn’t really original. It sounded too easy. But it would fit the facts. Apart from the sheer force unleashed here.

“It’s possible.” That was as close as Bertha would get to admitting he had a point without further proof.

Of course, there was one thing that would explain the devastation as well. “Do you think it was You-Know-Who’s work?” The only other wizard he could think of able to cause something like this was Dumbledore. And the Headmaster didn’t do rituals.

“It’s not impossible.” Bertha apparently didn’t like the idea any better than he did.

“If it was him, we’re unlikely to unravel this mystery.”

“We’ll do our best,” Bertha stated, her attention on the ashes near the centre of the explosion.

“Didn’t you learn what happens when we do our best?” Kenneth pouted. She was ignoring him.

Grumbling, he went and looked for anything that wasn’t a tree, or ashes. He didn’t expect to find much.

*****

Harry Potter woke up with his arms wrapped around Hermione. His girlfriend had her head on his chest, the blonde hair looking even lighter with the morning sun shining on it. He still wasn’t used to her dyed and straightened hair. It just felt off. Un-Hermione, somewhat. Luna would have a blast making all sorts of remarks about them being lost cousins, or sisters though. He chuckled at the image.

“Harry?”

“Sorry for waking you up.” He slowly withdrew his arms and interlaced his fingers behind his head.

“No problem. I should probably head back to my bed.” Hermione lifted her head and stared at the secret door leading to her room. Secret from her parents, at least - Sirius had cast the concealing charms personally. Harry felt a bit guilty about hiding this from her parents, but it wasn’t as if they’d had sex. The two of them had just slept together. They had come close to doing it, though. He nodded reluctantly.

She must have noticed, since she smirked at him, then straddled him and bent down for a kiss. He didn’t remember pulling her lacy top off, nor how her g-string had disappeared, but they technically still hadn’t had sex when she left his bed and room.

But they had come much closer.

*****

“I’ve called Moony, who called Dumbledore, who contacted a friend of his in Jamaica, who will visit us and take the memory to send to Hogwarts.”

Hermione Granger looked up from her breakfast when Sirius stepped out of the villa onto the porch overlooking the pool, where they were eating. French breakfast, since the villa hadn’t come with staff and Eugénie had cooked. Her mother had mentioned a few times that she’d cook, but so far she hadn’t done anything. Which Hermione was glad for. She still wanted to eat a Jamaican breakfast though, even if they had to go out for it.

“Is that the one who arranged our visit here?” Harry asked while his knife buttered up a floating croissant.

“Yes, Julius Booth. Apparently an employee of the Jamaican Government.” Sirius sipped from his tea - the most British part of the breakfast, brewed by Harry.

“Ah… do you think…” Hermione began.

“Yes,” Sirius cut her off with a wide grin. “Dumbledore said he’ll also answer questions.”

Hermione pouted while the rest of the people present chuckled, even Harry! She didn’t like being so predictable. She glared at her boyfriend, who kept grinning, and patting her thigh. The witch stuck her tongue out at him, but she was already wondering how she could ask their visitor discreetly about sympathetic magic. Once he arrived.

*****

Hermione Granger tried to study their visitor without being obvious about it when Sirius led him to the salon where everyone but her parents and Eugénie and Laure, who were out at the local market, was waiting. Julius Booth was an old wizard, with thin gray hair, dark skin, and a weathered, clean-shaven face. He was wearing a white shirt and loose matching pants, made of linen - or made to look like it. One couldn’t be certain with magic. The traditional vestment of Jamaican wizards, or so her book claimed. Not that she could trust it that much, as Sirius had demonstrated.

“Good morning, Mister Potter, Miss Granger, Miss d’Aigle, Miss d’Aigle.” The wizard nodded to everyone. Of course he’d know their names already, having arranged their cover identities. “I hope you are enjoying your stay on our island, despite this… episode.”

“Thank you, sir, we are,” Harry said, nodding back. “We’re grateful you’ve come so quickly.”

“Of course. Albus impressed the importance of the task on me.” Booth sat down and a cup of tea and a plate of sweets floated towards him. “Thank you.”

Hermione saw Harry pull the vial with the memory of the ritual out from his enchanted pocket and hand it over to their guest. The old wizard took it, and Hermione saw his eyes widen a bit when he looked at it. Sirius had sealed it with some spell only he and Remus knew, but she didn’t think that would surprise an old friend of the Headmaster.

Booth carefully put the vial into a pocket of his own, then took a sip from his tea. “I’ll send it to Albus as soon as I’m back in my office. Officially, I’m here to discuss some immigration matters with you, so I will have to stay for a bit to keep my cover.” He smiled warmly at Hermione. “I’ve been told a conversation about my country would be welcome to pass the time.”

Hermione was too eager to learn more about the island to feel put out about yet another wizard - or two, counting the Headmaster - teasing her. “Yes, sir. I’ve found out that the books I’ve read do not tell the whole truth.”

“That’s no surprise,” Booth said, nodding. “Jamaica’s wizards have traditionally kept a lot of secrets. Even before the Statute of Secrecy went into effect, we’ve been in hiding.”

“That was in the time of the Maroons, right?” She had read up on the muggle and magic history of Jamaica, and both featured those prominently.

“Indeed. After a schism occurred among the Haitian houngans, some fled to Jamaica and founded the Maroon communities, protecting escaped slaves in their hidden enclaves. At least that’s the official history. Some claim that the escaped slaves were actually enslaved by the houngans.” Booth put his cup down. “Though given our nation’s traditions, many will take offense at such speculation.”

“Violent offense?” Harry asked.

“Yes, Mister Potter.” Booth pointed at his robes. “We Jamaicans are very proud of our roots as escaped slaves who managed to win not only their freedom, but their independence as well. We were among the first magical nations in the New World to ban slavery. That’s also why you will not find any house elf on our island. Their bondage is anathema to us.”

“What about retainers?” Hermione asked, before she could help herself.

“Ah, our official position is that it’s not slavery, despite most of us knowing that that was where it originated from.” The wizard took his cup, which had been refilled by the enchanted pot, and took another sip, smiling. “My personal opinion is that it is a bit too close to the bond between a houngan and their apprentices for anyone to dare taking offense at.”

“Ah.” Hermione nodded, letting the pot refill her own cup while she nibbled on a scone. “How old are those apprentices, usually?”

“It depends. Traditionally, they were chosen as children, and raised in the home of their master. These days, most are chosen during their school years, and begin their apprenticeship after graduating. Though whenever a student drops out, rumors appear that he or she has been apprenticed early. A result of the secrecy surrounding the houngans.”

“That’s the famous School of the Waves, correct?” Valérie asked.

Booth nodded. “Yes. Officially, it’s the Caribbean School of Wizardry, but everyone calls it the School of the Waves. Or the School of Fog.”

“Because it’s inside a magic ship that travels around the entire Caribbean, hidden by magical mists,” Hermione said eagerly, then jolted a bit when Harry poked her side. “Sorry,” she mouthed towards him.

Booth didn’t seem to have taken offense. “Indeed, Miss Granger. I was schooled there myself.”

“They don’t teach voodoo there though, right?”

Booth nodded, but his easy, warm smile faded a bit. “That art is only taught from one houngan to his apprentices, said to be sworn to silence and unconditional obedience.” His eyes stared past Hermione for a second, unfocused, before he smiled again.

“Ah.” That meant learning sympathetic magic from a houngan was no option. No wonder the Headmaster hadn’t cautioned her against her plans. She didn’t doubt that her oath to Harry would not allow her to swear another oath. It looked like she’d have to content herself with books and inspiration. To cover her disappointment - and relief - she asked: “Does that mean that the houngans choose their own successors from outside their families?”

“They say that magic, not blood will determine the heir,” Booth said. “Though since I’m no houngan, I’m not in a position to verify how true that claim is.”

Hermione cynically suspected that a rather disproportionately large part of apprentices came from a houngan’s family. She didn’t say anything, but Booth’s smile seemed to indicate he knew what she was thinking, and she thought he might share her opinion.

“How much influence do the houngans have on the government’s policies?” She saw Sirius frown, and Harry tense up, and knew she might have made a faux-pas. But the Headmaster had let her know she could ask questions, hadn’t he? His friend wouldn’t take offense, would he?

Booth kept smiling, though he sounded a bit self-deprecating. “They are listened to when they make suggestions, due to their experience and knowledge. Of course, sometimes they seem to disagree among themselves about the best course of action, which can cause a bit of a tricky situation for our governor.”

“Ah.” So, as Sirius had said, the real seats of power were the houngan enclaves. Despite the refreshing egalitarian attitude towards muggleborns and the fact that the government and parliament was democratically elected, Jamaica didn’t seem to be that much better, if at all, than Britain for an ambitious muggleborn witch to live in.

Well, she could still enjoy her vacation. And she would. Although… “We saw a wizard in the shop. The clerk called him “Mister Blagrove...” She saw Booth’s smile vanish, and his grip on his teacup tighten. “Is he a houngan?”

“A rather well-known one, yes. One of the youngest houngans of Jamaica. His Master passed on unexpectedly a few years ago. He has stayed away from politics, mostly, so I haven’t had much contact with him, but there have been rumours… he’s not a man many dare to cross.” Booth looked at Harry. “Do you think he recognized you?”

Harry coughed, his hand touching his forehead. “I think he might suspect something, at least. I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.”

“I doubt he will risk doing any harm to a protégé of Albus,” Booth stated. Hermione couldn’t tell if he believed his words, or not. “If you meet again, be polite and respectful, and you should have no trouble.”

Harry nodded. Hermione didn’t think it would be that easy - it never was, in her experience. She held her tongue though.

Harry and Sirius asked a few more questions, mostly about broom flying spots on the island - of course, apart from Hermione and her parents, everyone here was obsessed with flying - but the old wizard soon checked his watch, then bid them goodbye. Dumbledore was waiting for the memory, after all.

*****

Albus Dumbledore withdrew from his pensieve, his mind full of the ramifications of Harry’s memory. Dear Julius had come through again, after arranging for the villa and cover identities. Maybe now he’d consider them even for Albus saving his family so many years ago. The old wizard shook his head. Julius probably wouldn’t. Not that it mattered that much, the two were friends. But it would have been nice to be friends without that hanging over them.

He sat down behind his desk. Tom had failed in his ritual. That was good news. But on the other hand, it was now clear what he was doing: The Dark Lord was creating a new ritual. A very dark one, from what he could tell - sacrificing a werewolf under the full moon meant the curse, one of the strongest the Magical World knew, was being tapped into. If Tom managed to harness that kind of power… the preliminary report he had received from Amelia was quite clear on the power of that mysterious explosion. The Aurors hadn’t found anything else but marble shards and some silver though, and, having seen the memory, he doubted they would. The magic unleashed would have wrecked any signatures, and probably rendered most magical detection spells useless. Muggle means might work, but he already knew what had happened. On the other hand, it might serve to cover up how he knew what happened.

Albus sighed. He couldn’t tell what exactly the Dark Lord was planning, not with just the record of two sacrifices, and two attempts, one successful, to channel the power of the ritual.   
He hoped that the Dark Lord would be forced to proceed more cautiously, and therefore more slowly after his near fatal mistake. If that ritual needed to be performed under the full moon, then that would limit him to one attempt per month. And yet Albus feared that it wouldn’t slow down Tom enough. The Dark Lord was a brilliant wizard, after all. He had been a prodigy, his talent obvious even as a child. If only he hadn’t turned to the Dark Arts...

He could only hope that an old man’s experience, another young prodigy’s talent, and a brave boy’s prophesied power would be enough to defeat Tom. At least their foe had no access to a computer, to speed up his Arithmancy. That might be the edge they needed to beat him.

*****

“You know, if we have to expect such a scene each full moon, and have to keep it secret, people might think you’ve become a werewolf.”

Harry Potter looked up from where he had transfigured his sandals into flippers and stared at Hermione. “Do you think so? They do not seem to suspect Remus.”

“Most students think he’s hunting werewolves during the full moon, trying to avenge his family. A few girls think it’s sooo romantic.” Hermione shook her head, her expression showing clearly what she thought of such notions.

“Merlin!” Harry was both appalled that some girls thought losing one’s family to a monster was romantic, and grateful that so many apparently didn’t suspect Remus’s secret.

“Well, using the time differences, you can be seen in the moonlight in Bulgaria, before the moon rises in England. That should prevent such rumors from cropping up.”

Harry sighed. “Hopefully.” He picked up his flippers. “Are you ready?”

Hermione nodded, grabbing her own flippers and goggles - both transfigured from sandals and a hairband, unlike Harry’s goggles, which had been specifically made with lenses to correct his sight. One of those days he’d give contact lenses a try, but enchanting them was tricky due to the need to place runes on them - a very difficult, if not impossible task for such tiny, transparent things. Maybe after the war, when they had more time to spend on such tasks...

This time Laure acted as a guard above them as they dove into the water from the small Zodiac. Harry oriented himself quickly and waved to Hermione to follow him. His girlfriend had been talking about enchanted earplugs to communicate underwater, but nothing had come of it. No one seemed to have thought of it, and she hadn’t had the time to do it herself. Harry wasn’t disappointed - he rather liked the silence under water. It was peaceful. They still could touch their Bubble-Head Charms together, if they wanted to talk. Harry rather liked how close they needed to be for that to work too.

Beneath them a few colorful fishes fled from their shadows. Hermione would know what species they were, but Harry didn’t care much. He knew what was dangerous underwater, that was enough. And those fishes weren’t.

He dove deeper, towards the wreck of a ship - or rather, a boat - that they had seen earlier, from the air. A crab was making its way over the reef nearby, seemingly ignoring him and Hermione. A few more fishes sped away to hide among the corals. A manta ray seemed to eye him before continuing its path. Harry and Hermione followed the big fish for a while, then turned away, swimming towards the wreck again.

As they neared it, he spotted something golden floating in the water, behind the hull’s remains, and almost rushed towards it before he realised it wasn’t a snitch. Maybe Hermione was right when she said he was taking Quidditch too seriously. It looked like… strands of hair?

Then a head popped up, a girl’s face, with gills. A siren!

Hermione was a few meters to his right. He slowly swam towards her, not leaving the siren out of his sight, until he could touch his girlfriend and point her at the creature. He thought he heard her gasp through the water.

For a while, they stared at each other, not moving other than to keep in place. Then the siren swam up and towards them. Unlike the merpeople in the Black Lake, she looked like a human girl with a fishtail instead of legs. As far as he knew, sirens were the result of magical chimera experiments, like centaurs. And as touchy about anyone bringing that up.

The siren stopped about three yards in front of them, cocking her head and smiling, showing a row pearly white teeth that looked just a bit off. She seemed to be a bit younger than Harry, if she aged like a human, and was only wearing some decorative pieces of coral and shells on her human half. He waved at her, slowly, and smiled in what he hoped was a friendly way for sirens. Hagrid had been talking about threat displays, and showing teeth was often part of that, but the siren didn’t look threatening, despite showing her own teeth. Maybe that was the human part of her heritage.

She waved back, and he could see the webbing between her fingers, then she swam around the two of them, faster than they could move, before she started touching and poking them, apparently amused by their appearance. He glanced to Hermione. His girlfriend was staring, and trying not to squirm when the siren’s hands ran through her hair.

“Hello,” Harry spoke up. He didn’t know if she could hear or understand him, but it seemed silly not to say anything.

The creature turned towards him, and said something he didn’t understand. It didn’t sound like Mermish, at least it wasn’t as high-pitched. He pointed at himself. “Harry.”

Hermione followed his example, or so he thought - he could hardly hear her through the two bubblehead charms.

The siren giggled, pointed at herself and said something equally unintelligible, then darted forward, tapping Harry on the head, then sped away, stopping and looking over her shoulder after about 20 yards.

Harry understood, and gave chase. The siren was far too quick and nimble to be caught though, even with him and Hermione working together. Until he cast the supercavitation spell. Then it became a high-speed game of tag, mostly between him and the siren - Hermione was a bit too cautious when using the spell to tag either of them often.

Harry didn’t know how long they had been playing, only that it had been less than an hour, since his spell hadn’t run out, but the game ended when the siren suddenly cocked her head, as if listening to something, then pouted before smiling, bowed to them - sort of - then waved and swam away, towards the deeper waters.

Harry and Hermione waved back, then returned to the surface themselves. Harry was smiling widely - this vacation was turning out to be perfect, even with his episode during the full moon!

*****

Vincent stepped in front of her, and was hit by the curse meant for her. He turned around slowly, and she saw his ruined chest, broken ribs poking through shredded skin, blood gushing out where his heart had been. “Your fault!” he said, blood spewing from his mouth, as he staggered towards her. “Your fault!”

Pansy Parkinson woke with a gasp. That nightmare again. Vincent dying, and blaming her. The witch sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees, shivering. If not for her enchanted night clothes, she’d be drenched in sweat, or so she thought. She closed her eyes, and tried to think of something else, anything else, than Vincent’s death.

No one blamed her for it. At least not to her face. Greengrass and Davis even called her a hero, for saving Davis. Their families did it too. Her and Greg. And Vincent. A hero! She snorted. She wasn’t a hero. She had just done what a good Slytherin would have done! Seen an opportunity, and used it, while saving herself! Vincent had been a hero. A damned, foolish, dead hero. He was supposed to be a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor!

Why had Vincent done that? Why had he stepped in front of her? Had he thought his shield would protect him? Had he hoped she’d owe him her life? Or had he known what he was doing, what he was risking?

Would he be alive if she had not stumbled on the Death Eater and frozen in surprise? Or if she hadn’t taken Draco’s place?

Was it her fault that he had died?

Pansy shook her head almost violently. It was the fault of the Death Eaters! They had attacked the Express! They had killed the students! Even the pureblood Slytherins!

She ground her teeth. The Dark Lord wasn’t supposed to do that. He was supposed to attack mudbloods and blood traitors. Do what’s needed to make Britain strong again. To restore the Old Families’ power. That was what Draco had always said.

But Draco had been an idiot. And she’d been an idiot for believing him. No one who wanted to restore the Old Families’ power would attack the children, the heirs, of those families. Nor would he stoop to using werewolves, and other dark creatures. She’d heard her mother blame Dumbledore, for failing to protect the children under his care. And the Ministry, for arriving too late. For being fooled by the Dark Lord’s spies. And she had seen how afraid they were of losing her.

That was what the Dark Lord had been after, she realised. Fear, and loss of trust in Dumbledore and the Ministry. That was what the students had been killed for. What Vincent, had been killed for. They had been mere means to an end. Tools to be sacrificed, like chess pieces.

Pansy hissed, clenching her jaws together until it hurt. She was no piece to be moved around, to be sacrificed for anyone! Damn the werewolves! Damn the Death Eaters! Damn the Dark Lord!

Rage filled her. So much rage and pain, she wanted to lash out, to hit something, anything.

When she noticed that the glass on her nightstand was shaking, as was the bookshelf next to it, she forced herself to calm down. She hadn’t suffered an episode of accidental magic since she had received her wand. She’d not start now.

She was a pureblood witch, and she would act like it!

And she’d train harder than ever. With Greg and anyone else who didn’t want to be a sacrifice for the Dark Lord.

*****

Henry Blagrove sat in his favorite chair, on the balcony overlooking his garden. Next to him stood a servant, with a tray of fruits and his favorite drink. As all who served him and his family in the house, the man was completely under his control, unable to even move a finger without an order - Henry’s servants wouldn’t be as easy to manipulate as his predecessor’s.

His grandchildren were playing under one of the palm trees in the garden, but he wasn’t looking at them, or at anything. He was thinking about Harry Potter. Who’d have expected that the Boy-Who-Lived would be taking a vacation in Jamaica? Or that his disguise would be broken by a curse, right in Henry’s presence? It was clear that the spirits had wanted this to happen.

What wasn’t clear was why they had wanted this to happen. Was he supposed to help the boy dealing with whatever ritual magic was hurting him, indebting Potter and by extension Dumbledore to him in the process? Or was he supposed to use the opportunity to forge an alliance with the Dark Lord Voldemort? Either option offered a lot of possible rewards, and risks.

Dumbledore owing him a favor would strengthen his position on the island. Just being seen on good terms with the old wizard’s protégé would make his rivals wonder what his relationship to the Supreme Mugwump was. They’d be cautious, and would be less likely to move against him. The Boy-Who-Lived was a contact to be cultivated in his own right as well. Despite his young age, he was a Basilisk Slayer, the winner of the Triwizard Tournament, and of course the slayer of the Dark Lord Voldemort. He’d certainly leave his mark on Britain. And his retainer was interested in voodoo. Yes, there was quite the potential there. Although from what his contacts told him, Julius Booth had visited the boy already. Booth was Dumbledore’s wand on the island in all but name, and might have dealt with whatever curse had afflicted the boy by now.

On the other hand, if Voldemort won he would be Dumbledore’s successor. The one to be feared. And while he was not as trustworthy as Dumbledore, he’d be in need of allies among the International Confederation of Wizards. Someone who helped him during the current war in Britain, and then offered support - discreet, but substantial - in international affairs could gain a lot. But then, how likely was Voldemort’s victory?

The Dark Lord had been defeated once already. Whether it had been the Boy-Who-Lived, or his parents, it hadn’t taken Dumbledore to do the deed. And from what he could tell, the Dark Lord wasn’t doing well in the current war either. His attack on school children smelled of a desperate tactic. To attack children was to attack a country’s future. That wasn’t the mark of a good ruler.

No, he didn’t think the Dark Lord would prevail. But was the possible gain from helping the boy worth the risk should the Dark Lord end up winning despite the odds? Dumbledore wasn’t getting any younger. Although he had been Flamel’s favorite student. And The Alchemist wasn’t getting any older…

He took a sip from his drink, and levitated a fruit to his hand. Decisions, decisions. Not doing anything would be the safest course of action, but to let such an opportunity slip through his fingers didn’t sit well with him. And it might anger the spirits.

*****

Hermione Granger put down the notes she had been taking - from a rather dry but quite informative treatise on the speculative origin of the ‘Ravenous Cold’ - and looked out at the sea. Not a single cloud was in sight, the sea was calm, she could spot a few bright white sailing yachts near the horizon, on one of them would be her parents… it was a sight straight out of a tourist ad. A tropical paradise. And it was real.

The young witch stood up and stepped out on the porch, transfiguring her summer robes into a bikini and a sunhat, then stretched in the sun. Valérie was sitting at the pool, resting from her latest ‘therapy session’. A faint whooping sound drew her attention to the sea, where Harry and Sirius were practising crazy stunts on their brooms. She shook her head, then looked back at the Veela, who had a faint look of longing and hope on her face. Justified hope - she was, if not healing, then at least adapting rather well. Hermione expected her to be flying again soon.

Walking over to the pool, she summoned her sun tanning lotion and her favorite towel. Valérie greeted her with a smile while the towel settled itself over the chair next to the Veela. “Finished with studying for today?”

Hermione nodded. “For a while at least.” A flick of her wrist had a dollop of lotion spread over her skin, and another changed her bikini’s fabric so there wouldn’t be tan lines, then she sat down next to the Veela.

The young witch remembered last summer, at the Côte d’Azur. She had been so insecure, with her and Harry surrounded by all those Veela. Jealous too. She glanced over at Valérie. She still was jealous. Sort of. But she wasn’t insecure anymore. Harry loved her. She loved him. And neither oath nor life debt mattered.

She closed her eyes, removed the hat and enjoyed the sun for a while. After all the stress of the last year, and the horror of the attack on the Hogwarts Express, this vacation was shaping up to be perfect. Even, she thought with a twinge of guilt, the absence of their friends was perfect. It let her spend a lot more time alone with Harry. Especially in the evenings, and nights. She smiled at the memories.

Then she frowned. The two of them were still holding back. Waiting. What for? His birthday? Her birthday? The start of their sixth year? Equinox or solstice? Some sign from the gods, or magic itself?

Hermione scoffed. This was between her and Harry. Magic wouldn’t influence it.

*****

Harry Potter looked up from the book he was reading on his bed when the secret door connecting his and Hermione’s room opened. She was coming over, as usual since the full moon, for some snogging, and petting. His girlfriend was wearing a sheer white camisole top, and matching panties, as he could see when she turned to close the door.

He watched as the witch slowly walked over to him, hips swaying, a smile on her face. Lessons from Valérie, he thought. And he grinned when he saw that she was forcing herself not to ask what he was reading, or to try to sneak a glance of the pages.

“It’s a book about the tactics of Grindelwald’s Storm Wizards during the war, written by Peter Rockhurst, a British Hit-Wizard who fought them,” he said showing her the spine.

“Ah.” Hermione climbed on the bed and straddled him. She didn’t ask if she could read it when he was done. Or if it was any good. Instead she started kissing him right away. He didn’t mind.

When they broke the kiss, both were panting, and his hands had slipped under her top. “Do… do you think your parents suspect what we are doing?” Sirius had told him enough stories about angry parents of his past conquests to worry about such things.

Hermione ran a hand through his hair, the other resting on his chest. “Yes. Mum asked me what wizards used for contraception when we arrived here. Since then neither she nor dad have said anything.”

They hadn’t said anything… that meant they hadn’t said anything against what the two were doing. And Sirius clearly (and sometimes loudly) approved of it. Anyone else didn’t matter.

He pulled her top off, then kissed and caressed her again. A bit later, her panties had vanished, as had his shorts, and both were flushed, and sweaty. It was time to stop before they went too far.

“Tonight we’re not stopping!” Hermione said, as if she had read his thoughts, then pushed him down on his back and stared at him.

He met her eyes for a moment, both of them panting. She looked determined, but also nervous. Then he nodded, and pulled her down on him.

*****


	43. Temptations

**Chapter 43: Temptations**

The next morning Hermione Granger wasn’t certain how she should feel about having slept with Harry. The romance novels she had read - mostly in secret - made a big deal about losing one’s virginity. So did the gossip in the girls’ dorms. According to those sources, she was now a woman. And a unicorn would shun her now.

She didn’t feel that differently. She felt satisfied, in more than one way, at having done it. She was even proud, both for having been the one to initiate it, and for having done it when she chose to, and not when anyone else thought it would be appropriate. And while it hadn’t been the mind-blowing, magical moment some novels described it as, it had been very satisfying in the end. Certainly a memory she would cherish for the rest of her life.

Though she did feel a bit guilty as well. She had been a bit pushy - though Harry hadn’t seemed to offer any resistance. And she had sort of, maybe, left her parents in the dark. Though they had at least given their implied consent. Still, she wouldn’t exactly blurt out ‘We’ve done it!’ at breakfast. Unless anyone asked.

Unicorns hadn’t mattered in her life before, not counting that time right after she had read ‘The Last Unicorn’, so she didn’t see how their opinions should matter at all.

She would, she decided, simply go on as before. Well, she added mentally with a smile as she looked at the dozing form of Harry, sprawled out next to her on the bed, mostly as before. She was quite certain they’d not stop or hold back as they had before, from now on.

And she was looking forward to it. Very much.

*****

Harry Potter woke up with a weight on his chest. A by now familiar weight - Hermione’s head, cocked to the side. Contrary to other mornings she was awake already, and smiling at him, close enough so he could see her clearly without his glasses.

“Good morning.” The young witch was smiling widely at him while she brushed some of her currently straight hair back behind her ear.

“Good morning.” He flicked his wrist and felt his wand slide into his hand, then summoned his glasses. As he slid them on he cast his usual Sticking Charm on them. Between Quidditch, pranks, and hexes in the hallways, it had been one of the first spells he had mastered.

For a moment the two looked at each other without saying anything while their smiles grew. Harry was searching for something to say. Something that wasn’t utterly cliche or would cheapen last night. He wasn’t having much success. ‘I wish you had had your natural hair’ wouldn’t be appropriate, or smart.

“So…” Hermione stared at him.

“So…“ he trailed off, then glanced at the secret door to her room.

She had noticed, and twisted a strand of her hair around her finger while she bit her lower lip. “Do you want to keep this a secret?”

“Not really. That would feel wrong. But announcing it would feel wrong too,” Harry said, reaching out to put his hand on hers. It would feel like bragging too.

“Then we don’t do either. We just act as usual,” Hermione said, nodding emphatically.

“Alright.”

They could do that.

*****

At breakfast, Harry found out that they couldn’t.

“You look quite tired. Did you have a wild night?” Sirius greeted him as he arrived at the table on the porch.

“Of course,” Harry answered, trying to sound deadpan and sarcastic. “We didn’t actually sleep that much.”

Judging by the way Sirius’s eyebrows rose, the young wizard hadn’t succeeded. Hermione blushing slightly when his godfather whipped his head around to study her didn’t help, of course. He could see the moment when Sirius realised they had had sex; the wizard’s eyes widened, and he was gaping for a second, before he whooped. “You really did it!” Then he apparently remembered where they were, and blinked. “Oops.”

Harry wanted to hex him very much right then.

He might have, if not for the reaction of Sirius’s girlfriends.

“Vraiment?”

“‘ermione!”

“Ohhh!”

“Raconte!”

The four Veela clustered around Hermione, squealing even, and started to bombard Harry’s girlfriend with rapid questions, half of them in French, while he and the others at the table stared at them in surprise. Harry’s French wasn’t that good, but from what he understood, they were asking quite intimate questions about last night. Hermione’s expression, a mix between shock and embarrassment, seemed to support that assumption.

Hermione’s father coughed. “Well… what is planned for today?” Then he blinked, and cut off Sirius before Harry’s godfather could make what would have almost certainly been a lewd remark. “I mean, do we visit Port Royal?”

“I’d love to visit the sunken town. Or not quite sunken town,” Hermione’s mother chimed in. After a glance at Sirius, who was now staring at them, she added. “Really, it’s quite a normal for teenagers to have sex. We expected this for a while.”

Harry thought she sounded a bit too nonchalant, but he’d be the last to point this out. Nonchalance was good. “I think we can visit during the afternoon,” he ventured, with a glance at the the four French witches. They appeared to have calmed down, and Hermione’s face had started to return to her normal color, but they seemed determined to grill her in private after breakfast.

“Oh, I have to tell Moony! He owes me ten galleons now!” Sirius grinned and took out his enchanted mirror.

“You bet on when we’d have sex?” Harry blurted out. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really, but still…

“Of course!” Sirius flashed a wide grin at him, then started to call his best friend through the mirror.

Well, Harry thought, it was better than his godfather asking him for details. Or trying to give him pointers.

*****

“Dear Ron…”

Ron Weasley threw the parchment on the table. He had read the letter from Padma twice already. She was in India, visiting family. She couldn’t tell him more because her parents feared for her and her sister’s safety.

He pushed his chair away from his desk, enjoying how the backrest adjusted when he leaned back. The cushioning charms were holding up as well. Who would have thought he’d actually get something useful out of the homework he had to do during the vacation?

His amusement was short-lived. He didn’t expect Hermione-length letters from Padma, but something more than what amounted to ‘the weather and food are fine’ would have been nice. Especially after he had written a rather long letter. For his standards, at least. A rather personal letter too.

The redheaded wizard sighed, closing his eyes as he slowly spun around with his chair. What really ruined his mood was that he was actually sort of glad Padma had written that letter. It made him feel less guilty about having caused her to be obliviated. And about planning to break up with her.

He had thought a lot about it. About them. About Padma. He liked her. She was smart, she was pretty, she was nice. And she liked him. Or had liked him. And for a while, it had been great. But it hadn’t been great for a while now. Padma… he didn’t really understand what had changed. She hadn’t been as jealous at the start of their relationship as she had been at the end of the last year. Not even when her sister had hit on him. She had liked hearing about Parvati’s attempts at flirting with him.

He didn’t understand why she had changed so much that she’d be jealous of Parkinson. As if he’d ever get together with a girl like her! A Slytherin to the core, and Malfoy’s ex! Ron shook his head at the idea. And yet Padma had been so worked up about the snake after each session of the Hogwarts Self-defense Club, they often had a fight afterwards. Ron didn’t want a girlfriend he fought with so often. Did that make him a lazy wizard?

He didn’t know. He did know though that there was another reason for breaking up with Padma. The Ravenclaw witch didn’t really fit in with his friends. It wasn’t that they clashed - though Padma was jealous of Hermione as well - but he was the best friend of Harry and Hermione, and they had bigger problems, much bigger problems, than worrying about who was going out with whom, or who was best in class. Padma probably hadn’t really understood that until the attack on the Express.

And if he was honest with himself, then he had to admit that he didn’t think she could handle it. Or she’d have written a different letter.

He sighed. It looked like he’d start the Year of Exploration as a single wizard. A year ago, he’d have been happy. But a year ago, he hadn’t had a girlfriend yet. Hadn’t known what he would be missing. What he was already missing. Though he didn’t know if he was missing Padma, or just a girlfriend.

He stood up and pulled out his shrunken broom. Maybe flying for a bit would help him clear his thoughts.

*****

“What did you and the d’Aigles talk about?”

Hermione Granger looked around before answering Harry’s question. Her parents were still studying the Governor’s Palace of Port Royal, and the animated statues in front of it that were depicting and reenacting the island’s history. Though, as she understood, the history was presented in a more than slightly edited version. Laure and Chantal were nearby, but currently talking to - and probably getting propositioned by - a few locals.

“Sex,” she finally said.

“Sex?”

She didn’t think Harry should be as surprised as he sounded. “Yes. Apparently there’s a tradition of talking about your first night among the French. Or at least among the French witches of the d’Aigle family.” The British witch was still a bit doubtful with regards to the exact age of that tradition - the four Veela had been living with Sirius for close to a year now, after all, and the man loved his pranks. Although the talk had been far more informative and comforting than what she’d have expected of a prank.

“So, you’ve discussed us with them?” Harry sounded almost apprehensive, and she saw him glance towards the two Veela with them.

Hermione shook her head. “No. We talked about sex in general.”

“Ah.”

His relief was obvious, and irked her. Did he really think she’d do that? “They did have a lot of advice though.”

“For…?”

“Yes.” And that was all she was saying. Let him steam on that a bit. “What did Sirius say?”

Harry flinched a bit.

“That bad?” Hermione knew Sirius rather well, after several years, but he still managed to surprise her - for good or ill - regularly.

“Just very enthusiastic. And he had a lot of advice as well.” Harry was staring at the slight shimmering barrier that surrounded the town and marked the end of the displacement effect that protected it from muggle eyes and lifted it above sea level.

“Well, that was to be expected. He had a lot of advice for you and me for years.” Mostly of the inappropriate kind, Hermione thought.

“Yes. And he has a lot more.”

“Anything good?” Hermione quipped before she could help herself, then giggled at Harry’s gaping expression.

Her boyfriend shook his head, but he was smiling. “We can share the advice later.”

“OK.” More knowledge wouldn’t hurt, after all.

“Now let’s visit the ghost ship!” He slipped his arm into hers and started to steer her towards the pier ahead of them.

“It’s not actually a ghost ship, you know,” Hermione said while they were walking along the pier. They couldn’t actually step on the ship, alas. “Just a haunted former pirate ship.”

“Close enough,” Harry answered, then grinned at her disapproval.

“It’s more than just a haunted ship, Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s wand shot into her hand even while Harry moved in front of her - his wand already out and pointed at the man who had surprised them. The houngan who had surprised them, she corrected herself while dread filled her. Blagrove. He hadn’t appeared from nowhere, but neither she nor Harry had recognized him until he had spoken - they had just seen a random passer-by.

The man seemed not to be concerned about Harry’s wand, or hers. Or even those of Laure and Chantal, who were approaching quickly. He pointed at the ship. “It’s actually a national treasure. Or a myth, if you prefer. The ‘Ellen’s Fortune’ was originally a pirate ship whose crew had flaunted the Statute of Secrecy in the first half of the 18th Century, preying on muggle shipping with the aid of magic. The British Ministry managed to bring her up after a hunt that lasted for years, and had her crew executed at this very spot. They planned to use the ship themselves, but the ghosts prevented that. Before they could be exorcised, the War of Independence began, and to the British Ministry’s surprise, the ship and her crew proved very helpful for the Maroon forces, providing essential support for the siege of Port Royal. She became the island’s flagship after the war, and has held that position ever since.” With a grin, the man added: “She still sorties once per year, but of course the Statute of Secrecy as well as muggle shipping are quite safe from her now.” Hermione realised he had a very faint British accent, something she hadn't noticed during their brief first meeting.

“That’s very interesting,” Harry stated, lowering his wand. He was right, Hermione thought, even if he didn’t mean it. “I’m very sorry for drawing my wand on you, but you startled us, sir,” Harry added while he holstered his wand. They were in public, after all, and Dumbledore’s friend had been quite clear on how to treat the houngan. At least she had felt the familiar tingle of a privacy spell.

She stuck her own wand back into its holster and stepped a bit to the side, to her usual spot slightly behind Harry, before she remembered that she wasn’t in Britain. Smiling politely, she stepped forward, next to Harry. “After the recent unpleasantness in Britain, we’re a bit nervous.”

Blagrove nodded, smiling graciously. “All too understandable.” He nodded towards the two Veela, who were close enough now to have entered the range of the privacy spell. “My ladies d’Aigle.” At least Hermione’s parents were keeping their distance. “I apologize for startling you, but my curiosity overcame my manners.”

A peculiar wording, Hermione thought. Had this been a sort of test? He obviously knew a lot about them already. For a moment she wondered if he had spied on them last night, then dismissed that notion. The wards on the villa had been too strong for that.

Harry must have shared her thoughts, since he spoke up. “Let us consider the matter over then, Mister Blagrove.”

Blagrove smiled, flashing perfect teeth at them. “Of course. I trust you feel better after your recent accident, Mister Potter.”

“It was nothing to be concerned about. Just a little mishap.” Harry smiled, though Hermione knew it was forced. As was her own smile. Her worst fears about Harry’s vision were coming to pass; the houngan had not only recognized Harry, he was also interested in him.

“I wouldn’t make light of such an event, Mister Potter. Such magic can be very dangerous.” He smiled again, friendly, but with a warning, or threatening undertone. “Julius is a capable wizard, but he’s no houngan. He’s not privy to the kind of magic you seem to be dealing with. Or seeking.”

Hermione had to struggle not to shiver when Blagrove’s gaze fell on her with his last words.

“But you are.” Harry took a small step towards her.

“Yes, Mister Potter. And I do not think that it was mere coincidence that you suffered such an episode when we met for the first time. It was a sign.” Blagrove wasn’t smiling now, but staring at them. “Though this is not the place for such a discussion,” the man added, almost casually, without elaborating further.

He was fishing for an invitation, Hermione realised. She didn’t know if that was reassuring - meeting him under their own wards would grant them quite an advantage - or if inviting him would place them in more danger. Though she was quite certain that spurning the houngan was dangerous.

Harry must have come to the same conclusion. “Might I invite you to our temporary home, Mister Blagrove? Tomorrow evening, maybe?”

“I’d be delighted, Mister Potter.” The man was beaming at them.

Hermione felt a cold shiver run down her spine.

*****

Henry Blagrove was in a good mood when he apparated back to his home. Not because of the invitation by the Boy-Who-Lived. That he had expected. It would have been terribly rude, after all, not to invite one of the de facto rulers of the island, and the boy was anything but rude.

No, Henry was in a good mood because the boy had, so far, lived up to his reputation. He also had quick reflexes, courage enough to face Henry, as well as both decent training in combat and the knowledge when not to use that. Quite impressive for someone so young, but then - he was the Boy-Who-Lived, and Dumbledore’s protégé.

In other words, the boy was worth the trouble of getting involved in that mess in Britain, even if only on the sidelines. And his girl was showing some promise as well - from what his contacts had gathered, she had shown remarkable potential in spellcrafting. She was very skilled already.

Even if the two turned out to be disappointing upon further testing, Henry meeting them in public - his privacy spells hid their words, nothing more - would have ensured that no one of his rivals would be contacting them for fear of provoking Henry, even though they wouldn’t have recognized the boy yet. Preventing any other houngan from making inroads with Dumbledore’s protégé was a success in itself, and well worth setting up the meeting at the pier.

On the other hand, whoever was cursing the boy was likely to notice him as well. Since Potter was still alive, it couldn’t be a houngan. At least not one of importance. Maybe an apprentice who had managed to flee his master, and was now serving Voldemort. Most likely from Haiti - the houngans there were not quite as diligent with controlling those they taught as the Jamaicans were.

If he played his cards right, Henry could both indebt Dumbledore to him, for saving the boy, and his fellow houngans, for preventing Dumbledore from blaming them for the actions of some stray apprentice.

And, maybe, get another apprentice as well.

Unless allying himself with Voldemort turned out to be more profitable.

*****

Sirius Black was in a very good mood. Ecstatic, even. Or as close to ecstatic as he could get, without a nude woman in his arms. His godson had done it! All of Sirius’s efforts in making those two loosen up some had finally paid off! Harry and Hermione were no longer wasting time dancing around each other, they were having sex! His godson was a man now! He could teach him so many things at last!

If only James and Lily could see their son and his girlfriend… Sirius sighed, melancholy replacing his joy. Their deaths still hurt, even after all those years. Damn traitorous rat! He sat down on the closest chair on the veranda and stared out at the sea, trying to remember the good times with his friends.

“You seem rather sad for a proud godfather.” Valérie’s voice interrupted his attempt to recollect what exactly the Marauders had done to earn themselves a full month in detention in their fourth year. It had involved the showers in the Quidditch locker room, he was certain of that, but the rest was hazy - lost in Azkaban, like so many others of his memories.

He smiled at the witch, and leaned back in his seat. She accepted his unspoken invitation and sat down in his lap. “I’m just thinking of the reaction of Harry’s parents,” he said, holding her.

“What would they say?” She rested her head on his chest.

“James would be proud, and boasting. We’d be drinking together. Lily … Lily would have known what they were going to do beforehand. Probably before Harry even. She was just that smart.”

“Like ‘ermione?”

“Somewhat. Lily was brilliant, like Hermione.” Less prude though, now that he thought of it. Ah, the 70s… “But she was better with people. Hermione’s a bit… reserved.”

“Mh.”

He raised an eyebrow at her even though she wasn’t looking at him. “You disagree?”

“I’d call ’er discreet, not reserved.”

“Ah. Your talk.” His imagination ran wild for a bit, until Valérie poked his side.

“You talked to ‘arry.”

“I did!” His godson had even listened, more than usual, when Sirius had gone into detailed advice. At least for a while.

“Good.” She leaned back against him and shifted her weight a bit around.

The two sat in silence for a bit, watching the azure sea. Two seagulls were circling above the beach, looking for food. Sirius knew Valérie was staring at the birds with longing.

“I think it’s time for your therapy,” he said while squeezing her hand. It wouldn’t do to slack off, not when she was getting so close to being able to fly again.

“I guess so.” Sighing, she stood up and stretched. Once again Sirius was tempted to ask her to delay.

But he simply watched as his girlfriend concentrated, as feathers appeared and wings sprouted from her back, one well-formed, perfect as her human form, the other slightly crooked, and darker in spots, missing some feathers. Her robe adjusted automatically to her new body - not that the few scraps of fabric floating around her needed much adjustment to start with.

Sirius cast a few cushioning charms, earning him a slight glare. If Valérie had been in human form he knew she would have pouted.

“That’s not too encouraging,” she said, with the slight screeching undertone of her transformed form.

He smiled. “Habit.”

“As long as you stop doing it once I am ‘ole again…”

With that she started to flap her wings, sending grains of sand and even a few small pebbles flying away from her spot. Sirius could see how she was straining, fighting her own, maimed body. Earlier this week he had mentioned that according to Harry, she might have already been flying if she had taken a running start, and used thermal updrafts to help her… Valérie and her cousins had been quick and vocal, very vocal in pointing out that ‘gliding was not flying’. Apparently, they had known what Harry had meant.

Now the French witch was sort of hopping, jumping up, then touching the ground again, despite her wings working hard. But each time her jumps lasted longer. It still wasn’t flying…

And then Valérie jumped, and didn’t get back down. Instead she was climbing, circling above the pool, into the sky.

For a moment, the animagus stared, almost frozen. She had done it! She was flying! Then he pulled out his broom, unshrunk it, and mounted it to join her in the air.

Sirius caught up to his girlfriend above the sea, where she was chasing the seagulls they had seen earlier. The poor birds were screeching in panic, even though they were easily evading the still clumsy bird-woman. Valérie herself was screeching in joy, diving at the birds, then pulling up and gaining more altitude before repeating her ‘attacks’.

He stopped his broom, and simply watched her play in the wind. Could this day get any better?

Of course, that was when Valérie overdid it and failed to pull up, doing a credible imitation of a seeker who had fallen for a wronski feint, straight into the sea. He dove after her, concerned - she hadn’t been that high, and hadn’t been going that fast, but still…

There she was! Resurfacing, scowling and sputtering - she had transformed back - but alive and healthy! He stopped near her, and reached down to give her a hand.

Maybe he shouldn’t have grinned quite so widely at her predicament. He saw her expression change into a smirk, and before he could react she had dispelled the Sticking Charm keeping him on his broom and pulled him into the water.

He hadn’t felt as happy in a long time as he did right then, splashing into the Caribbean Sea. His girlfriend was flying again, and pranking him. And his godson was a man.

And he had great fun hexing the seagulls, after Valérie told him they were laughing at them.

*****

“You did what?!”

Harry Potter, sitting on a couch in the villa’s salon with Hermione, winced at the volume of Sirius’s shout. “I invited Mister Blagrove, the houngan we talked about with Mister Booth, to the villa tomorrow evening.”

“Why? That man’s dangerous!” Sirius stood before him, hands gesticulating wildly.

“That’s why I did it,” Harry responded. “It was obvious that he was expecting an invitation, and I suspect he’d have felt insulted if I hadn’t invited him. And I don’t think insulting one of the rulers of the island is a good idea. Or safe.” He met his godfather’s gaze until the older wizard sighed and sank into one of the armchairs in the room.

“Merlin’s balls, Harry! A houngan! They don’t like British wizards. At all.”

“Even if they do, Booth claimed that they still fear Dumbledore and won’t anger him,” Harry said.

“Unless they’re allies of the Dark Lord,” Sirius shot back.

“If that was the case, wouldn’t he have done something when he saw us at the pier?” Hermione added.

“Houngans have a reputation for avoiding open battles, instead striking with curses from afar.” His godfather hissed through clenched teeth.

“Not counting the zombie attacks,” Harry responded - he had done his homework, after all. “And if he plans to curse us from the safety of his enclave, why would he want to visit us?”

“He needs a link for his magic. Blood or hair, usually.” Sirius stared at him. “You aren’t missing either, are you?”

Harry shook his head.

“I’ve vanished all his blood when he had his vision.” Hermione leaned into him, a comforting presence at his side.

Sirius closed his eyes. “Damn it! Why did we pick Jamaica as a vacation spot?” He blinked, then narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “That was Dumbledore’s recommendation. He said it was safer to meet the Grangers here. His friend arranged everything…”

Harry felt his girlfriend tense up. He wrapped his arm around her waist in response.

Sirius was looking from Harry to Hermione and back. “Did you expect this meeting?”

Hermione sighed, then answered: “I didn’t, though I suspect the Headmaster took the possibility into account.”

Sirius stood up and stared at the witch so intently, Harry fought the urge to step in front of her and shield her with his body. “What’s going on? What are you planning with Dumbledore that you would meet with a houngan?”

Hermione took a deep breath, but Harry spoke before she started to explain: “They’re looking for a way to remove the thing stuck in my scar without killing me.” He felt a pang of guilt when Sirius paled and collapsed back in his seat.

“Merlin! That’s …” the older wizard trailed off. “Dumbledore thinks it’ll take this?”

Hermione nodded. “We’ve been working on ways to deal with it. Sympathetic magic is one of the more promising options.”

Sirius stared at the witch, and Harry could almost see how his godfather figured out what the plan was - the animagus was looking at Hermione as if she was a houngan. The young wizard pulled her into his lap in response, and glared at his godfather until the man smiled weakly in apology.

“We’ll do what’s needed,” Hermione said.

Sirius rubbed his face, then nodded. “Of course.”

Harry felt another pang of guilt. Those two would do anything for him, pay any price. Even if he would do the same for either of them, he didn’t feel as if he was worth it.

The three remained silent for a while.

“We still need to prepare for this ‘neighbourly visit’,” Sirius finally declared, breaking the silence. “Even with Dumbledore’s reputation protecting us, we’ll have to make sure our visitor can’t get his hands on any hair or blood or other link from any of us. Nor get the opportunity to tamper with our food.” He sighed. “That won’t be easy.”

“We’ll layer detection spells on all of us, to prevent him from sneaking any control potion in. And we’ll have to clean the house of any of our hair and blood.” Hermione said. “Bathrooms and beds especially,” she added, with a slight blush.

“We could place some blood and hair, from a dog maybe, as decoys,” Harry proposed. “Just in case he tries something.”

“Good idea!” Sirius nodded approvingly. “Prank the houngan, sort of!”

Harry knew his godfather didn’t really think this was a prank, but anything that helped lift their mood was welcome.

*****

“Do you think I’ll be next?”

Pansy Parkinson looked up at Greg’s words. The two of them were studying in her family’s house, and doing their homework. Or pretending to do it - she hadn’t actually turned a page for the last 10 minutes. “Next?”

“To die,” the boy said. Most would have missed the slight fear in his voice. Pansy though knew him better than most. “Draco died, killed by the Dark Lord. Vincent died, killed by a Death Eater. I’m the last one left.”

Pansy gasped, then shook her head emphatically. “No, you won’t die! And you’re not the last. Did you forget me?”

Greg blinked, then nodded, smiling faintly, and returned to reading his book, apparently reassured of his survival. “Thanks.”

Pansy closed her eyes. He trusted her. Probably with his life. She didn’t deserve that kind of trust. No one did. She didn’t want that kind of trust. She didn’t want to worry about him.

And yet she did. And hoped fervently that she hadn’t just lied to Greg. The boy had taken Vincent’s death even worse than he had taken Draco’s. As soon as their parents had allowed it, he’d come visiting her. Her parents thought he was consoling her, being a good friend. Offering support to their distraught daughter.

They didn’t know him. He had lost his best friend. He might not show it, but he was hurting a lot more than she was. He needed her help more than she needed his. Sighing, she closed her book. “Let’s practise some.”

She didn’t have to elaborate. Greg knew that when Pansy said ‘practise’ she meant ‘dueling’. They had been practising a lot. And they’d train even more. The next Death Eater attacking them would rue the day he joined the Dark Lord.

*****

Hermione Granger cast another cleaning charm on the salon table. She, Harry and Sirius as well as Valérie and Chantal were waiting for their guest. Her parents were on another day trip, with Laure and Eugénie to keep them safe. She didn’t want to find out the hard way that the houngans didn’t consider her muggle parents part of Harry’s family.

Not even Sirius made a joke about her constant casting - everyone was all too aware of the reputation of houngans. And everyone was nervous as well. Harry was pacing, Sirius was fidgeting in his seat, after he had sniffed around as Padfoot for any traces of blood left, Valérie was fussing over Sirius and Chantal was checking the villa’s borders and wards.

Or rather, she was setting down outside the salon. “Someone apparated nearby,” the Veela announced, before taking off again - to meet the visitor.

Harry took his seat next to her, wearing his best robes - his safest, most enchanted ones. As was Hermione herself. Though they’d still have to buy new robes. For Nymphadora’s wedding, and for their sixth year. The first year they wouldn’t have to wear the old school robes. She’d need some time to enchant them as well.

Then the door opened and she focused on their guest. Mister Blagrove was wearing the same robes he had been wearing yesterday - they looked like rough and simple white trousers and a shirt. Traditional garb for a Jamaican wizard, and apparently, a houngan as well. He was alone. Hermione wasn’t certain if that was a sign that he didn’t mean them any harm, or simply showed how confident the man was. Or that he didn’t want them to see his usual entourage.

“Welcome Mister Blagrove. I offer you the hospitality of my home.” Sirius was greeting the man with all the ease and grace expected of the head of one of the Old Families hosting a guest in his - if only temporary - home.

“I accept your hospitality, Mister Black,” the houngan said, bowing with a smile.

Hermione relaxed. Only slightly though - while attacking one’s host was heavily frowned upon in the Magical World, it wasn’t quite unheard of, and she suspected that later using sympathetic magic through a link obtained as a guest might not be covered by that custom anyway.

“You’ve met Chantal d’Aigle already. This is her cousin, Valérie, both dear to me.” The two Veela bowed, greeting the man while Sirius introduced them as his girlfriends, or mistresses. Jamaican custom was not as strict about the exact status of one’s lover as Britain.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Harry was slightly less graceful as he bowed in greeting - he had been raised by muggles, after all, though he had had nearly five years of practise now.

“It’s an honour to meet the famous Boy-Who-Lived.”

“My girlfriend, Hermione Granger.”

With the Veela being as charming as expected, Hermione felt a bit like the ugly duckling of the family, with her own bow coming off a bit stiff - she was used to being the retainer at Harry’s back in such situations, not his… girlfriend. Blagrove didn’t notice, or rather, didn’t show that he had noticed.

“The pleasure’s all mine, Miss Granger.” He bowed as deeply as he had bowed to the others, even if he had a glint in his eyes.

They took their seats around the low table, Valérie summoning a few snacks and an assortment of drinks to choose from, and they - mostly Sirius - made some small talk for a while, until Chantal and Valérie excused themselves to ‘fly a bit’. Hermione knew they weren’t happy about it, but even Sirius had agreed - after some arguing - that since Harry’s ‘condition’ had been mentioned by the houngan, it was best to keep the talk as private and secret as possible.

Once the two Veela had left, Blagrove raised one eyebrow, and Hermione thought his smile was looking rather more ominous than easy-going. “I take it your girlfriends are not interested in more serious matters.”

“They’re a bit flighty,” Sirius answered with a grin. Hermione was too tense to glare at him for his joke.

The houngan nodded at the wizard, though the muggleborn witch couldn’t tell what he really thought. “I trust you have been informed about my offer.”

“You offered to help with the cause of my ‘episode’,” Harry said, leaning forward.

“Indeed I did.” Blagrove touched his fingertips togethers. “Someone is affecting you from afar, through a link. It’s obvious.”

“We gathered that.” Harry said.

“And you suspect sympathetic magic behind it,” the houngan stated, with a nod towards Hermione. “Hence your purchases in that shop.”

Hermione dug her fingers into her thigh as she realised that the man didn’t know what was happening - he had to suspect a voodoo curse. Harry’s secret was still safe!

“And the link works through your scar.” The Jamaican pointed a long finger at Harry’s forehead. “Through the famous mark left by the Killing Curse.” The eager expression on his face made Hermione want to hex him.

“That is what we suspect, yes,” Harry said, skirting the truth a bit.

“Which means Voldemort is behind this attack. Or rather, one of his followers with a rudimentary understanding of voodoo. For if he was a houngan, you’d be dead already.” The man grinned smugly. “Fortunately, I’m not such a dabbler, so it should be rather easy to deal with this threat.”

The houngan was getting rather close to the truth, Hermione thought nervously. And he was entirely too happy about the whole situation. Sirius seemed to share her opinion, judging by the way he tensed up. If he had been in his dog form, he’d have probably growled.

“Do you offer to kill that wizard?” Harry asked.

“It’s the most effective way to ensure your safety,” Blagrove claimed, “and your girlfriend’s safety. You’d not be the first man controlled from afar and forced to kill his loved ones,” he added casually.

Hermione put her hand on Harry’s thigh, gripping it. She knew that while Harry could keep a lid on his temper very well, threatening his family, and especially her, would rile him up.

“A generous offer,” Sirius cut in. “Though I expect you’d need to use Harry’s scar yourself, to ‘deal’ with that unknown wizard.”

“You’d be correct, Mister Black.”

“Which would mean you might be able to use that link yourself, afterwards.” Harry’s godfather leaned forward. He had still a polite smile on his face, but his eyes were cold.

“Not necessarily. There are ways to protect him from any such attempt.” Blagrove’s smile faded a bit.

“Ways a houngan would be needed for as well,” Sirius stated.

Their guest nodded.

“That seems like far too much power over me to grant anyone, much less a stranger. No offense meant, sir.” Harry smiled at the man, though Hermione could see and feel his tension.

“None taken.” The houngan’s smile grew stronger. “It’s a legitimate danger, after all - alliances, even friendships, can change, or end.”

“Well, I think we’ll have to decline your generous offer then.” Harry bowed his head. “I’d rather be dead than a slave. I’m sure you’ll understand that, given your country’s history.” Hermione didn’t know if she should resent Harry for that comment, or not. It struck a bit too close to her own situation.

“Of course I understand. That’s why I’m offering you an alternative. I could teach your girlfriend ways to deal with this threat.” He stared at her, that chilling smile on his lips again.

Hermione lifted her chin in response. “Are you offering to teach me voodoo?”

“As you no doubt know, that would require oaths you’d not be willing to swear. But I’m offering to teach you sympathetic magic. Houngans are the experts at that kind of magic. And our knowledge is not to be found in books.”

Hermione bit her lower lip, hard. To learn what she needed, from a houngan… She knew he had ulterior motives - he had to, given his reputation and position. Anyone who had the knowledge that she needed would. She looked at her boyfriend. He didn’t like it, she knew. Had known as soon as she had heard the offer. She shouldn’t like it either. But this could be the best way to save Harry. And the knowledge he was offering her…

She heard Harry whisper a curse, then he looked away. He knew just as well as she did that they needed this.

*****

Henry Blagrove kept smiling politely, not showing just how pleased he was with the meeting so far. Miss Granger would be accepting his offer. To help her boyfriend, of course. But also because she craved the knowledge he offered. He had taken her measure.

“We accept your offer to teach us about sympathetic magic, sir,” the girl said. Prim and proper, as expected. He glanced at Black, whose face betrayed none of his emotions. Henry hadn’t expected anything else - the man was the head of one of the Old Families of Britain. His young charges were not quite as skilled in hiding their emotions though.

The houngan looked at the Boy-Who-Lived, whose face betrayed his reluctance for a moment, before the young wizard nodded his agreement. Henry didn’t miss how the witch frowned, briefly, in response. The girl didn’t like to require the boy’s permission for such agreements. Didn’t like to be under his power. Others might have missed it, but Henry understood the feeling very well - he had been an apprentice for decades, forced to do his master’s bidding, until he had finally managed to break the bindings. And his master. He knew all about facades, and resentment, and the urge to become free, to be your own master.

“We have an agreement then.” He held out his hand - to the boy, first, which had the girl’s eyes narrow for an instant again. He had a firm grip. Henry turned to the girl, and they shook hands as well.

“Where will we be instructed, sir?” The witch asked. She was eager, and a bit desperate, Henry thought.

“I would offer my home, as befitting a teacher, though I think your guardian would agree that this house would serve better.” He glanced at Black, who nodded.

“I think that would be best.”

Henry graciously nodded. Of course, the Boy-Who-Lived wouldn’t be visiting Henry’s enclave. Not with that scar of his offering someone a way through his wards. While the wayward apprentice working for Voldemort was no threat, a more skilled houngan was another thing. “Have you studied the books you purchased already?”

The witch nodded. “I did, though the contradictions between the books and sometimes inside the same book make forming a coherent model of their content a bit difficult. Even though the basic concepts are the same - some parallels to quantum mechanics, maybe - the details vary greatly, and the descriptions of the rituals seem to be more hearsay than actual observations.” She was about to continue when the boy stopped her with a not so subtle touch, and whispered something into her ear. She blushed. “I’m sorry, I got a bit carried away.”

Henry smiled indulgently. “Don’t be. It’s refreshing to see such enthusiasm from a foreigner. Most seem to fear our traditions, a result of many centuries of ignorance and tales told by our enemies.” And of experiencing the power of the houngans. The British had many reasons to fear their magic. “Please continue.”

While the girl rambled on, Henry used the opportunity to look at the boy’s scar again, his interest hidden by his glasses’ enchantments. He longed to properly examine the scar, but that was clearly out of the question - at least for now. Maybe the boy would come to trust him enough… Even so he had been able, thanks to the other spells on his glasses, to study the scar somewhat. And even the glimpses he had managed to catch were very interesting.

The scar was said to be the result of the killing curse, but Henry doubted that. It felt more like soul magic. Similar to certain gris-gris. Maybe it wasn’t a wayward apprentice working for Voldemort, but that dark wizard himself, trying to work his dark arts through the scar? The man could have easily visited the Caribbean in the past, and gathered some of the same books the girl had purchased. Enough information to start him on that path, but not enough to master it.

Maybe Voldemort had not tried to kill the boy, but to control him, and whatever ritual he had tried had backfired? If the wizard had attempted to duplicate the voodoo ritual Henry was thinking of without proper instructions, such a failure was very likely. Of those who tried to delve into the secrets of voodoo without a master, many met such a fate - the spirits did not react well to what they perceived as slights.

And yet, the ritual, if that had been it, had not entirely failed. A link had been created. A soul had been touched. A skilled practitioner of the arts, such as Henry himself, might be able to build on that foundation.

Once the girl had reached the descriptions of rituals in those books, Henry held up his hand. “There’s no need to go over those. You were correct in suspecting that those authors never observed an actual voodoo ritual.” They would have been killed, if they had, or bound. “They might have observed a muggle ceremony, at best. In any case, if it’s agreeable, we could start the lessons tomorrow, in the afternoon. You will not be staying too long on our island, after all.”

The witch nodded, then glanced at the boy.

“Alright.” Mister Potter’s agreement was slightly less enthusiastic, and obviously prompted by the girl. Interesting.

Henry was looking forward to discover more about the boy’s relation to the girl. And about his scar. So much potential, there. He knew now why the spirits arranged this meeting.

*****

“... and they agreed to have daily lessons with the houngan in the rented villa.”

Albus Dumbledore nodded when Remus had finished his report. “Thank you, Remus.”

“Did you expect this to happen? Sirius thinks so.” His Defence Teacher seemed to suspect this as well, judging by the way he held himself.

The Headmaster smiled gently. “I considered the possibility, though I did not expect Mister Blagrove to take an interest.” Which would require some investigating.

“Why would they need to learn voodoo?” Remus didn’t quite spit the word out, but his scowl made his opinion of that particular magical tradition clear. “I somehow doubt he’s under such a spell.”

“He is not. And they’re not learning voodoo. Just sympathetic magic.” An important distinction, Albus knew. At least for the public.

Remus narrowed his eyes. “From a houngan. He’ll not exactly teach them ways to heal people from afar.”

“The reputation of houngans in Britain has been a bit colored by our history with Jamaica. And a few sensational articles in the Daily Prophet.” He flicked a lemon drop to Fawkes, who gobbled it up.

“There’s enough truth to the reputation though, behind the legends.”

Albus couldn’t contradict that. Remus had always been among the most studious of his year. “I trust Harry and Miss Granger not to be lured down that particular path. Sirius will be keeping a close eye on them as well.”

“I still don’t see the need for those lessons. What… Merlin!” Remus stared at him. “You plan for them to use that to strike at the Dark Lord?”

He was, in a certain way, though that was not something Remus needed to know, even if the teacher suspected it. “Harry is vulnerable to this kind of magic, and understanding it better will help with protecting him. The Dark Lord has studied the Dark Arts extensively, and I am quite certain he at least looked into voodoo.” The Headmaster was quite certain that Voldemort never tried to learn voodoo too. Tom would never have paid the price the houngans required to teach their magic.

“Why don’t you research it then?” Remus asked. “You’re the one he fears.”

“He is not the only one who fears me. Unfortunately, the odds of any houngan teaching me anything are rather small.” His actions in the past, those very few knew about, had ensured that.

“And the odds of any houngan teaching Harry, despite knowing how close you are, are better?” Remus scoffed.

“Yes, as your own missive proves.” Albus smiled at Remus as if the other wizard was still a student asking difficult questions in class.

“The houngan will try to manipulate them. Do you trust the kids and Sirius that much?”

“Yes.” He had been keeping an eye on the two children for years, after all.

Remus shook his head. “I don’t like it. And Sirius doesn’t like it either.”

“I am quite certain that neither Harry nor Miss Granger like it.” And yet they’d do what was needed. As would Albus. “I am in contact with a friend on the island. Mister Blagrove knows that as well.” The man was no fool, after all, or he would have never become a houngan. And he would know the price for hurting the children. The Headmaster changed the topic. “You said Miss d’Aigle managed to fly again, without the help of magic?”

Remus nodded. “Yes. Sirius was overjoyed. That was before he knew about the visit.”

“Remarkable. To think muggle means overcame a curse effect!” This would require further studies.

“Hermione’s parents claim it’s a simple matter of the body learning how to compensate. If the damage done to her wing had been just a bit worse, it wouldn’t have helped.”

“I see. Still, it is a remarkable feat.” And it gave him a few ideas about how this could be adapted for magical healing. He’d have to check with a friend at St. Mungo’s one of those days to see how feasible his ideas were. Once he had the time.

If not for Remus’s presence, Albus would have sighed. So much to do, so little time…

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort examined Steinberg’s latest work while the wandmaker hovered nearby, fidgeting and waiting. It was better than the wands used in the attack on the Hogwarts Express, but it wasn’t perfect yet. Probably not even good enough.

“Has it been tested?”

“Not in actual battle, milord.”

Voldemort was tempted to order a test. Curse fodder going against each other, with a prize to motivate them. But he couldn’t afford it. He hadn’t the manpower to spare for such. He could launch another raid, of course, but that would put even more wands at risk.

He shook his head. “The wand is still too difficult to master.” Not for him, or for Bella. But the kind of scum who needed those wands to stand a chance against veterans? They were not strong enough to withstand such a wand’s influence for long. Not used to wield such power.

“Reducing its strength further will reduce its power, milord.”

“Find a way around that!” He had a few ideas himself, but since he wasn’t a wandmaker, he couldn’t tell if they were feasible. But with how slowly the work on the ritual went, due to the need to have a full moon to test it, there would be ample time to test several possible ways to improve the wand design.

And enough time to expand the number of Wizengamot members cursed with lycanthropy.

And deal with the Boy-Who-Lived.

*****


	44. Sympathy

**Chapter 44: Sympathy**

“Sympathetic magic is, in essence, a way to affect the whole through a part of it, no matter the distance between them. It’s a way to target a curse.”

Hermione Granger nodded to Blagrove’s words as she made notes. She already knew that, of course, from the books she had read, but it wouldn’t do to interrupt the houngan when he had been the one to offer to share his knowledge. A dicta-quill was transcribing the entire lesson, but she always learned better if she made notes of her own.

The witch had been torn between anticipation and dread while waiting for the man to arrive. Even though the houngan might be her best hope to save Harry, she didn’t trust him too far. Neither did anyone else of their family - as before, they had removed all traces of blood and hair from the villa, though they had skipped the decoys. But they hadn’t stopped there, but gone far further. She almost glanced at the corner again, where Harry’s cloak hid their guardian. If the houngan tried anything to hurt Harry, he’d be stopped. So far he had not tried anything.

“Some claim that this is possible because even cut off, dead, a body part retains an echo, an imprint of the soul, and this is what links them together.”

Hermione almost gasped, and only managed not to stare at Harry by focusing on her notes. This was very close to what she was hoping to achieve. But if the secret got out...

“That is blatantly incorrect. Sympathetic magic works on animals and buildings as well - both lacking souls.”

That Hermione hadn’t known. The books, and the tales always spoke of humans being controlled or killed from afar, never buildings. She wondered how wards on a building affected such a curse cast at it.

“For the same reason, the claim that blood is the key to sympathetic magic is wrong. The importance of blood for magic is vastly overrated anyway.” Blagrove scoffed. The very faint British accent she had noticed before was now a bit stronger. She wondered where the Jamaican had picked this up - had he been in Britain, in his past? Was there more behind this statement about blood than magical theory?

“No, the key to sympathetic magic is that anything and everything is made up from small parts, all which have at least one thing in common, and that by affecting those small parts, you affect the whole. This idea, this concept, is what defines sympathetic magic. The link is not physical, but ideal.”

Hermione almost raised her arm, as if she was at Hogwarts. She didn’t want to speak out of turn, after all. Blagrove must have noticed her expression, and nodded at her. “Sir, if the link is not physical, why does sympathetic magic need a physical object to work?” All the books agreed on that.

“The physical object is needed as the target for the curse used with sympathetic magic. Without anything to be affected, no spell will take effect.”

Hermione nodded - she should have known that. She heard Harry cough and mutter “semantics” under his breath.

“That’s the concept. The actual execution is very difficult. It requires a ritual.” Blagrove met her eyes and she thought she saw a hint of amusement in his polite expression. And a challenge.

She raised her chin slightly in response.

*****

Henry Blagrove smiled while he watched the two teenagers scribe runes on parchment. The girl was as quick a study as he had expected - and hoped - and the boy was, if not quite as quick, not much of a hindrance. As far as teaching them sympathetic magic went. He was a rather large hindrance for recruiting.

Not that Henry had serious plans to recruit the witch, no matter her potential. Or perhaps because of her potential. She would not make a good apprentice, always chafing at her bonds and quick to question instructions. Like Henry himself had been. And probably willing to employ any means to break free from her master. Like he himself had been. And had done. He’d rather not end up like his old Master.

No, trying to turn her into an apprentice wouldn’t end well.

He turned his attention to the Boy-Who-Lived. The only wizard who had survived the Killing Curse. It was no wonder the boy had attracted the attention of the spirits. Both Papa Ghede and the Baron were interested in a wizard so tightly tied to death and the Dark Arts. Henry knew that from personal experience.

But what were the spirits’ goals? The obvious assumption was that Papa Ghede had protected the child from dying before his time, stopping the Killing Curse, and that the Baron had resurrected the Dark Lord who had cast that very curse. Were Potter and Voldemort just pieces of a match between those two spirits?

Or was it more complicated? Should the boy have died in his crib, and the Baron had intervened, prompting Papa Ghede to revive the Dark Lord to do what he had been prevented from? It was unlikely, but not impossible that the parents of the boy had made a deal with the Baron, to save their son, sacrificing their own lives as payment.

If only he could examine the scar! He was certain that this was the clue he needed to unravel this mystery. The scar was not the result of a mere dark curse, that he knew - it was seeped in soul magic. And death. If he knew the scar’s secrets, he’d know what the spirits wanted. And he’d know which spirit he’d help.

But he couldn’t. Not without starting a fight. And while he was quite confident that he’d win against the boy and his guardians - unless that scar was hiding even more secrets and power that he assumed - the boy was under Dumbledore’s protection. Henry had no illusions what would happen if the Supreme Mugwump arrived on the island because of his actions. His fellow houngans would cast him out, some would even attack him, just to placate the Vanquisher of Grindelwald.

No one had forgotten what had happened to Brandon Whyte and Teresa Manley, forty years ago, and to all their apprentices.

But if Henry didn’t do anything, he’d anger at least one, maybe both spirits. And he suspected that limiting his lessons to sympathetic magic wasn’t enough to placate either Papa Ghede or the Baron.

He might have to resort to something houngans only did in dire need.

“I think that’s enough for today. Study those runes some more, and consider the sacrificial aspects of the ritual. We’ll go over it again tomorrow.”

*****

Harry Potter sighed with relief when Blagrove had left the villa. “I don’t like that man.”

His girlfriend nodded, after a second. “He’s a good teacher, but…”

“He’s up to something,” Harry stated.

“We knew that already when he offered to teach us. No one does that without some ulterior motive.” Hermione collected her notes - which were covering the salon table as well as the dining table.

Harry handed her the parchment from the dicta-quill which was still floating near them. “Is it worth the risk?”

Hermione nodded without hesitation. “Yes. This ritual we’re learning should teach me enough to design my own.”

She sounded confident, but Harry remained sceptical. “Voodoo is supposed to be a secret art, only those bound by oaths able to learn it.”

“Technically, it’s not voodoo he’s teaching us. Just sympathetic magic.”

“Which is a central part of voodoo,” Harry countered. It was what made the houngans so scary to most wizards, after all.

“I’d say the central part of voodoo is the religion,” Hermione sat down on the couch.

Sirius and Valérie returned after having escorted their guest to the door. Or rather, Valérie returned with Padfoot, who was wandering around with his nose on the floor.

Harry blinked. “Are you playing sniffer dog?”

Padfoot bopped his head and barked once, then went back to what looked like a slightly chaotic search of the room.

“Is he actually trying to ‘sniff out treachery’?” Hermione sounded as sceptical as Harry felt.

“He’s trying to find anything our guest might have left,” Valérie said, taking a seat at the now cleared dining table.

“Yes,” Sirius said, having transformed back into a wizard. “I’d rather not have him drop a pebble, and then curse it with voodoo.”

“I do not think that would work… the wards might not be able to protect the pebble, but they’d stop the curse from affecting anything else.” Hermione frowned. “Though…”

“Could you enlarge and then transfigure a pebble into an animal, and take control of it?” Harry asked.

“I doubt that you can split the effect up like that. Though you could probably turn the pebble into poison, and enlarge that - but you’d do the same to the part in the ritual circle, next to you..” Hermione bit her lower lip in that familiar way that told Harry she was thinking hard about ways to get around what she had just said.

“We are already able to deal with poison,” Sirius said. “I’m not too worried about possible voodoo attacks, I simply want to know if he left us anything we don’t know about.”

“Listening spells?” Harry threw out.

“Privacy spells would still protect us.” Sirius shook his head. “Don’t get too hung up on voodoo. Using voodoo to duplicate normal spells doesn’t make them more powerful, or able to break through defenses - unless you’re directly targeting a wizard through his blood.”

“Technically, it’s sympathetic magic, not voodoo,” Hermione added, earning an eye rolling from the animagus.

Harry sat down on the couch and pulled her on to his lap. “So, did you find a sign of treachery?”

Sirius looked at him, probably trying to decide if Harry had been mocking him. “No. But I still don’t trust the houngan. This ritual may look harmless, but could be a trap. We need to be very careful there.”

“The greatest danger is Voldemort finding out about this link,” Harry said, tapping his index against his scar. “Blagrove already thinks there is a link. If he is working for Voldemort, or with him, then he’d have informed him of that already.”

Sirius nodded. “I doubt he’d dare angering Dumbledore without support from Voldemort.”

“I’ll still go over what we learned, and see if there’s something we have missed,” Hermione announced, standing up and spreading out her notes on the salon table. “Just because it’s unlikely doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

Harry sighed. It looked like a long evening. And a long week, or two - not exactly what he wanted his vacation to end up like. Then he felt guilty at thinking such selfish thoughts. She was doing this for him, after all. They all were doing this for him.

He tried not to show just how much this weighed on him.

*****

Sitting in the kitchen, holding a mug of tea, Paige Caldwell felt like blowing something up. Or ripping it to pieces. Or someone. Specifically, Wilbur Burke. That arrogant, disgusting, grabby scumbag represented just about everything that was wrong with male werewolves. Nothing in the head but sex, barely able to wield a wand, and the morals of an animal.

He was easy on the eyes though, and if he tried, he could be very charming. So charming, she had fallen for him, and bedded him the very night he had arrived in the flat she was sharing with Umbridge. A decision she had regretted in the days since. Very much.

“Hey, sweetcheeks! Still sulking?”

Paige turned her head slightly and glared at Burke. The man smirked, then leered at her bare legs, and went to raid the fridge for breakfast - in his case, raw meat. And the full moon was still weeks away. The witch shook her head. The only good thing about the man’s presence was that Umbridge wouldn’t enter the kitchen as long as he was in there - though after two days, Paige had started to prefer the other witch’s company to Burke’s. And that more than anything else showed just how disgusting that man was.

But his presence was required - they were under orders. The next target of their group to be cursed, Wizengamot member Ethan Hathaway, prefered wizards to witches. Paige and Umbridge were just tasked with introducing Burke to the old wizard, they wouldn’t have to sleep with him. It didn’t do much to make her feel better - the next full moon, she’d likely be required to spread her legs for the Dark Lord’s goals again.

She gripped her cup tightly, almost crushing it. As satisfying as it might be, in theory, to curse those bigots who were responsible for the plight of werewolves, she had signed up to fight, not to whore herself out. She was better than this! She would not remain a whore!

She noticed that Burke had stopped smacking, and was staring at her, almost warily, before he grinned cockily - though it looked a bit forced. “Hey… if you want some meat, I’m always in a sharing mood.”

She realised she had been growling, and scoffed at the weak double-entendre before standing up without another word. In the living room, Umbridge was sitting on a seat. Burke had been sleeping on the couch since his second night here, and Paige was rather certain the other witch hadn’t touched it much less sat on it during that time. The two exchanged a glance, Paige glaring at the door to the kitchen, rolling her eyes, Umbridge sneering, though more at the door than at Paige.

She sat down at the table and summoned the Daily Prophet. No news worth reading, mostly speculation, gossip, and some article about the war that said nothing with a lot of words. Paige growled at the picture of the Minister addressing the Wizengamot, and smirked when the figure tried to leave its frame.

Then she sighed. She was getting bored as well, waiting for Burke to leave. Hoping the next full moon would arrive quickly was a novel experience for Paige, and not one she enjoyed.

*****

Henry Blagrove stared at his garden without really seeing it. He couldn’t tell what wine he had just drunk. He was still, after a week of giving lessons in sympathetic magic, trying to decide what to do about the Boy-Who-Lived. Or rather, how to find out what the spirits wanted him to do.

Contrary to what other wizards thought, those who only knew muggle ceremonies, a houngan generally only asked the spirits for a specific boon. If the boon was granted, the spirits had agreed to the deal, and the houngan had a year to pay the price he had offered. Henry had done so, asking for guidance, but he had not received any. Or not any that he had seen - one had to pay a lot of attention to see how and where the spirits affected the world to nudge their faithful along. Sometimes they appeared in dreams, but seldom with a clear message. And not too rarely, they led a houngan astray, presumably because they had been angered in the past.

There was another way, of course. He could invite the spirits to possess someone, like the muggles did. But that was very dangerous when you were caught between Papa Ghede and the Baron - who would he invite first? Whose anger for not being called first would he risk? The Baron had helped him greatly, but as great as his boons had been the price he had to pay - and would still pay, unless Papa Ghede interceded on his behalf. And even if he risked this, there was no guarantee that he’d receive a clear answer - when the spirits took possession of someone, they tended to indulge in the physical pleasures that spirits without a body were denied.

He had to examine that scar.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick was just finishing his latest - and slightly late - report when his partner, Bertha Limmington, entered their office and floated a rather thin file towards him without a word. He grabbed it from the air and opened it. It contained a set of wizarding photos of what looked like a rather luxurious ‘private club’. Probably taken from a pensieve, he thought while watching the dancer in the background pivot in the air - they generally didn’t tolerate cameras inside such venues. Then he recognized the witch in the background, pushing a curtain back so she could leave a booth. Umbridge. He looked at his partner. “Don’t tell me we’ll have to go undercover as courtesans again!”

“I doubt that will be needed. Though if needs must…”

He stared at her, then coughed, not sure if she was joking or not. “What’s up with Umbridge? Last I heard she wasn’t being investigated. Did that change?”

“In a way. According to the file there, she was seen with Trevor Fickleton two months ago. A month ago, she was hanging on the arm of Rees ap Evan. Last night, she was in the booth of Ethan Hathaway.”

“Hathaway? He doesn’t like witches.” That wizengamot member liked tall, handsome wizards.

“Yes.”

“You think there is more to this than a former Ministry employee working as a whore.” He didn’t ask - he knew his partner well enough.

“Correct. According to the file, Umbridge put a lot of effort into cultivating Fickleton as a friend when she had become persona non grata at the Ministry. She dropped him less than two months ago, and started working on Rees. Apparently successfully, but she soon dropped him as well, and is now working on an avowed homosexual.” Bertha pulled another photo out of the file. “This witch here hasn’t been identified yet, but is likely to be working with her.”

“Not bad. She looks a bit rough on the edges though,” Kenneth commented, cocking his head to check an angle. “And here, when she thinks no one can see her, she all but vomited. Not your typical courtesan.”

“She might be unwilling, but there are no signs of her being controlled with magic.” Bertha checked another paper. No picture there.

“She could be doing it for the money. If she flunked her exams, and can’t get a decent job...” Kenneth shrugged. It happened.

“It’s enough of a suspicion to warrant an investigation, apparently.” Bertha sniffed.

Kenneth groaned. “Don’t tell me it’s a political case!”

“Then I won’t.” Bertha was smiling again.

He glared at her. “Funny. Who’s behind it?”

“The Minister.”

“Those rumors about them, then?” Kenneth had heard many variants, but none had really convinced him.

“Likely to be true.” Bertha grinned. To think the Minister had been chased around his table by that witch...”

Both chuckled, even if Kenneth didn’t feel like it. Another political case. More people would be meddling with the investigation. Trying to make him and Bertha present the facts in a certain manner.

“I should have joined the Hit-Wizards. Easier work, and you’re expected to curse people each day,” he muttered under his breath.

Bertha didn’t react.

“That’s where you tell me that I’m needed at my current job, Bertha!” He glowered at his partner.

She chuckled. “I don’t think you’d make a good Hit-Wizard. Not enough self-discipline. Or any other discipline.”

“Hey! Just for that, you can play the courtesan when we visit the club later, and I’ll be the dashing rich first time visitor.”

“Dashing and rich?” Bertha squinted at him in an exaggerated manner. “Have you been holding out on me?”

Kenneth closed his eyes, huffing. “Let’s get to work.”

“Technically, you should have been working for the last hour.” Bertha was teasing, but there was a glint in her eyes.

“You know what I mean!”

*****

Hermione Granger waited while Mister Blagrove inspected the runes she had painted on the polished marble floor. They should be perfect, according to her notes and arithmantic calculations, down to the amount of chicken blood in the paint she had used. But as with exams, she still worried while her work was tested. What if she had made a mistake? Failed? Harry’s vision had shown the possible consequences of a failed ritual. Granted, they were not sacrificing anything (though the blood in the paint was required, which made her wary), and only trying to locate an object through one of its parts, but still…

She felt her hand grasped and gently squeezed. Harry. She didn’t need to glance at him to know he was smiling, in that slightly teasing way he had when she worried about her grades. She pressed her lips together, pointedly not looking at him, and heard a soft snort. She wasn’t wearing her robes, the enchantments on them would disturb the ritual, just a white shift that reached the middle of her thighs. She wasn’t even wearing her torc - and after years of wearing that precious gift, she felt naked without it.

But teased or not, she wasn’t that tense anymore when the houngan stood up and nodded at her. “This is acceptable.” She still was relieved of course.

“Now, you have studied the ritual. Here is one quarter of a coin, you will find the rest of the coin.” With that, Mister Blagrove handed her a slice of a doubloon.

Hermione felt the weight in her hand, then put it down in the centre of the circle she had drawn. Then she sat down, her legs crossed, at the edge of the circle. Taking a deep breath, she nodded at Harry and started chanting while she remembered the instructions from the houngan.

_Visualize the part as the whole, then that as the sum of its parts._

The doubloon was heavy, large, and shiny. Four times the mass of the slice in the circle. She could imagine it. She could imagine four such slices, eight, sixteen, countless slivers, pieces, forming the coin.

_See the bonds that hold the whole together. The force that forms the whole. And follow it._

Her eyes were closed. And yet she was looking, searching for the thread that tied the essence of the coin together. The tiniest glow would show her… There!

She followed the tiny glowing thread she had seen, until she saw a shiny coin - missing a slice - buried in the earth beneath a palm tree. There was the rest of the doubloon!

She opened her eyes, noticing how the quarter of the coin was still slightly glowing. How her dress was clinging to her skin, soaked with sweat. How she was panting, tired. She looked up, smiling, at Harry, who smiled back, then at the houngan.

“I saw it, it’s buried under a palm tree at the beach north of us.”

“Indeed, Miss Granger. Congratulations,” Blagrove said in a dry voice.

She didn’t care - she had done it!

Harry smiled at her, offering a hand to help her stand up. She took it, and then gasped when she realised that she needed the help - she was not steady on her feet. Before she could fall, he had her in his arms.

“How long…?”

“About an hour.”

An hour? She pulled her head back from his shoulder and stared at him, surprised. She’d been chanting for an hour? No wonder she felt so tired! She leaned against him again, enjoying his warmth.

“Now it’s your turn, Mister Potter.”

Hermione sighed, and the two separated, Harry, wearing only a pair of linen trousers, receiving another piece of a coin, then taking her former spot in the circle, closing his eyes.

When he started to chant, the runes on the floor started to glow, spreading out from the coin. Hermione watched, fascinated, as she saw the pattern she had drawn on the floor emerge, glowing. Then she looked at her boyfriend, his bare chest, his face, his reddening scar.

She gasped, taking a closer look. The scar wasn’t bleeding, but it looked fresher, inflamed even.

This wasn’t good! She had to stop that, but if she interrupted the ritual, the backlash would be very painful… She glanced at the houngan, and saw his eyes were glowing.

*****

The scar had started to react as soon as the Boy-Who-Lived had entered the circle - before he had started the ritual. Henry Blagrove cast a detection spell, his potion-enhanced sight could see through disillusionment, and spot some curses, but he needed more to examine the scar. It would make it harder for Potter to finish his ritual, but the houngan had to know what was happening. He focused on the scar, which was glowing under his sight, then on whatever was affecting it… his eyes widened. Others would have missed it, easily. Or would have dismissed it as a reaction of a curse scar to magic. But he knew better.

The boy’s scar was reacting to the anti-possession ward! The reaction was very weak, but clearly visible for someone with his extensive experience with both the spirits as well as the Dark Arts. The boy wasn’t possessed - the reaction would have been much more violent in that case - but something was in that scar that was similar to possession. When he realised what the scar was hiding, he gasped.

Then the boy started the ritual, and the runes surrounding the teenager began to shine brightly with power, quickly obscuring the fainter traces of the anti-possession ward and the scar itself. It didn’t matter - Henry had seen enough. He had been wrong, there was no wayward apprentice behind the attack through the scar!

The boy carried a piece of another’s soul in his scar!

He glanced at the girl, who seemed to have noticed the scar’s reaction as well. She was staring at him, now, with wide eyes. Had she seen his reaction? Did it matter? The Boy-Who-Lived had a piece of another soul in his scar! Henry knew more than enough about the Dark Arts to understand what that meant. Someone had split his soul, and anchored it in the boy. Someone had created a Horcrux. And there was only one wizard who had both the means and the opportunity to do that: The Dark Lord Voldemort.

Henry knew a lot about Horcruxes, even though he had never dared to make one himself; not when it meant angering both the Ghede and the Baron as well as sacrificing his afterlife. Nothing could stop Death forever. But as the Old Egyptians had shown, Death could be held at bay for a long time. Voldemort didn’t have to beat his enemies in Britain, he could outlive them.

This changed the situation. It wasn’t a question anymore of who would win, Dumbledore or Voldemort. It was just a question of when Voldemort would win. Unless the Boy-Who-Lived died. Didn’t Dumbledore know about this? Was he planning to sacrifice Potter at just the right moment so he could kill Voldemort as well? That would assume that Potter was the Dark Lord’s only Horcrux… but that didn’t make any sense. Who would create a living Horcrux, which would die, of old age, unless killed before, as their only means of cheating death?

No, Voldemort had to have created another Horcrux. His true soul anchor. Protected and hidden, well beyond the reach of even Dumbledore. It’s what Henry would have done, had he decided to risk creating a horcrux.

Potter… Potter was not a means to cheat Death, he was a weapon. Sooner or later, he’d succumb to Voldemort’s influence, and would be controlled by the Dark Lord. The Boy-Who-Lived defecting to the Dark Lord would be a blow to Voldemort’s enemies, Britain’s morale would plummet. But Potter was more than a symbol, he was a force by himself, Henry knew that. The boy might be not as brilliant as his girlfriend when it came to learning spells and unraveling the mysteries of magic, not as precise in his wand movements, but when it came to casting what he knew… the houngan hadn’t seen that kind of power very often. And as Dumbledore’s protégé, he’d have ample opportunities to use that talent against Voldemort’s enemies.

If Dumbledore was just playing for time, waiting for the most opportune moment to deal with Potter, then there was an opportunity. Henry knew a lot more than either Voldemort or Dumbledore about sympathetic magic. And he was a houngan. With a little help from him, the right ritual, the Dark Lord could break and quickly take control of Potter, far faster than Dumbledore would expect.

It was, Henry thought, a far more advantageous outcome than supporting a doomed boy and an aging wizard against a Dark Lord who would outlive all three of them.

He realised the witch was still staring at him, her surprise and worry having been replaced with suspicion. She was smart, after all. And, sadly, still bound to the boy. Though maybe he’d get her as an apprentice, after the Dark Lord controlled Potter. He doubted Voldemort would care much about a muggleborn witch. Provided she survived the war.

But it was time to cover his tracks - it wouldn’t do to arouse more suspicion, not before the deed was done. Fortunately, he had come prepared, just in case he needed a distraction. He might not have been wearing his enchanted robe, but there were other ways to be protected. More expensive, but what was gold when dealing with spirits?

“I fear Mister Potter’s ritual is not going as well as yours, Miss Granger,” Henry said, in as concerned a tone he managed, while he crushed a small piece of clay in his pocket. The witch’s head whipped back to the boy, just in time to catch the bright flash that erupted on the middle of the circle.

“Harry!”

While the ritual went out of control, and the backlash started to hurt the boy, Henry drew his wand. He’d make it look like he attempted to help - it wasn’t as if the boy would die, not from such a weak ritual.

Before he could cast any spell though, he suddenly froze. Someone had paralyzed him, despite all his protections! This was impossible - no one here was able to do that! Had this been a trap by one of his rivals? But how had they been able to hide from him? And what houngan, other than himself, would risk open battle?

He caught movement in the corner of his eyes - the only part of his body he could still move, and would have screamed in sheer terror, had he been able to. There was Dumbledore! The wizard was pulling off an invisibility cloak that had hidden him. How had Henry failed to spot him? His detection spell should have shown any trace of magic in the room!

The old wizard turned towards the houngan with a look of anger and disappointment, even regret on his face, and Henry realised just why the spirits, or rather, one particular spirit, had arranged his meeting with the Boy-Who-Lived. It hadn’t been to offer him an opportunity.

It had been the Baron’s plan to claim what he was owed for granting Henry the boon of freedom, so long ago.

Henry felt like laughing at his own folly, right before he was stunned.

*****

_See the bonds that hold the whole together. The force that forms the whole. And follow it._

Harry Potter had tried to follow the instructions Mister Blagrove had given them. But it was difficult. Far more difficult than imagining the whole coin. The young wizard had ground his teeth, forcing all thoughts of failure away. He’d do this! He had to, unless he wanted to let Hermione do such rituals alone, let her risk herself.

_See the bonds that hold the whole together. The force that forms the whole. And follow it._

His scar had tingled, even hurt a bit, but that had not even been a nuisance. He had focused on the slice of the coin in the centre of the circle. Focused on the whole coin in his mind. It had been all in his mind. Where had been the link he had known had to be there? He had taken a deep breath, pressing on, forcing himself to focus even more. He had caught a glimpse, a tiny spark - if he hadn’t been a seeker, he’d have missed it - and tracked it. Had that been a thread?

Suddenly, his vision was filled with light. Light so bright, it hurt his eyes, despite them being closed. Pain shot through his head, quickly growing worse. His skin felt like burning. The ritual was going wrong…. out of control… the power hurting him. burning him. Growing stronger, wilder.

He snarled, struggling to regain control. If he didn’t, it would hurt everyone else in the room as well - Hermione. He wouldn’t let her be hurt through his mistake. He wouldn’t!

He wouldn’t!

Suddenly, the pain was dimming. His head, his skin, felt better. He opened his eyes, and saw the runes on the floor weren’t shining anymore. The piece of gold in the centre had melted, and the area around it was blackened, runes smudged or burned off. His trousers had been burned as well, though his skin looked, if red, not truly hurt. Sunburned, at most.

“Harry!”

He had time to turn his head, see Hermione was unhurt, right before she crashed into him, hugging him as she pushed him to the ground. Memories of last night welled up, their positions so similar, but were quickly squashed as he felt his girlfriend tremble in his arms.

Dumbledore was there, not hiding anymore. And Mister Blagrove was… stunned and bound, on the ground? It had to have been the Headmaster’s work, and he wouldn’t have done that, unless...

“Did he sabotage the ritual?”

“He did, Harry,” Dumbledore answered, in a grave, and slightly tired voice.

“Why?”

“That’s what we will find out,” the old wizard said, his expression utterly lacking his usual smile.

Then Padfoot stormed inside, changing into Sirius in mid-leap, and things went out of control for a while, again.

*****

Albus Dumbledore stared at the bound and once again stunned Henry Blagrove. For a moment, he saw Henry Ainsworth. The boy from London who would have attended Hogwarts, if not for his muggle parents moving to Jamaica during the Second World War. Who would have grown up into a wizard, had not a houngan noticed the boy’s magical talent, and taken him as an apprentice. Without giving either the boy or his parents a choice, of course.

Back then, there had been nothing Albus could have done, realistically, about the abduction. Not during Grindelwald’s War. And later, after he had defeated Gellert, after he had been elected as Supreme Mugwump of the ICW, able to deal with such incidents without his wand, Henry Ainsworth had already become Henry Blagrove. A houngan apprentice. The man might have chafed at the bonds laid upon him, and would have resented becoming a retainer sworn to a Patron as well, had he stayed in Britain, but he had chosen to succeed his Master anyway, continuing the cycle.

The Headmaster felt sorry for the boy, as well as for the man whose mind he had read. Sorry for what had happened, and sorry for what he would have to do. But if Voldemort learned of his link to Harry… Henry wasn’t entirely correct about the nature of the link, and it’s consequences, nor did he know about the blood protection, but the Dark Lord would be able to both take precautions against Harry’s ‘visions’ as well as use their link to hurt Harry. Or worse.

And when put against the life of Harry, and the fate of Wizarding Britain, the life of a houngan who had turned dozens of people into mindless servants and murdered innocents to hurt his enemies didn’t carry much weight. Nor did his honest sympathy for Miss Granger’s situation - or what Henry thought her situation was. The man had been seen himself as much as he had seen the young witch when judging her - not entirely without cause, though. Albus would rather not consider what path his brilliant student would have chosen, should she have become the retainer of someone other than Harry.

No, his course of action was clear, if not entirely honourable. But then, hiding under Harry’s Cloak of Invisibility, and wielding the Elder Wand wasn’t exactly ‘fair’ either. Not that fairness had much of a place in war. As an additional benefit, Henry’s fate would likely scare his surviving peers into staying at least neutral in the current war, but that didn’t make him feel better about what he had to do.

He pointed his wand at the unconscious houngan.

“Diffindo.”

*****

Sirius Black looked up when the Headmaster returned from wherever he had taken their captive. He didn’t ask about the houngan’s fate. He didn’t need to - the old wizard’s expression told him enough. Neither Harry nor Hermione asked either. Smart kids.

“What had he planned?” Sirius leaned forward. That piece of scum had tried to attack Harry. If not for the Headmaster anticipating such trouble - not that it had taken the wisdom and experience of Dumbledore to expect a houngan to double cross them - he might have gotten away with whatever he had wanted.

Dumbledore sat down in the seat opposite Sirius and the kids. “He had planned to betray Harry to Voldemort. To help the Dark Lord to attack Harry with sympathetic magic.”

Sirius growled. If the houngan had been present, Padfoot would have ripped the scum’s throat out. After savaging his groin.

“So, he had planned this from the start?” Harry asked, stiffly.

The Headmaster summoned a floating teacup and some sweets before answering. “He had not yet decided which side he would join when he offered to teach you. That decision was made today.”

“Because of my… ?” Harry tapped his forehead.

“Yes.” The old wizard sipped from his cup.

“And I thought he liked teaching us… “ Harry’s girlfriend looked at the floor, shoulders slumping. His godson wrapped his arm tighter around her, consoling her. Sirius smiled despite the circumstances - Harry knew how to treat a girl.

“He was impressed by you two. Especially by you, Miss Granger. He had considered to make you his apprentice, after the Dark Lord had won - if you were still alive.”

Hermione gaped for a second at the Headmaster, then clenched her jaw together. For a few seconds, no one said anything. Sirius saw the young witch tremble slightly, and Harry whisper something into her ear. He almost missed the faint, sad smile on Dumbledore’s face.

“So, the situation has been dealt with. Yet, should we cut our stay here short anyway?” It wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice, they had a few days planned, though the kids hadn’t been able to really enjoy the last week or so, with daily lessons. Although the animagus suspected Hermione might have enjoyed that more than lazing around. She was weird that way. Not weird enough to enjoy learning more than sex though, from what he could tell.

“Julius thinks there shouldn’t be trouble, but…”

“Better safe than sorry?” Hermione asked when the Headmaster trailed off.

“I am loathe to recommend depriving you of more time spent with your parents, Miss Granger, yet it might be advisable to return. Julius will not be able to cover up Mister Blagrove’s unfortunate demise, and the other houngans will look into the matter.” Dumbledore took another sip from his cup.

Sirius agreed with the old wizard. “It might be best. If our cover won’t hold up much longer, we risk attracting Voldemort’s attention to this location.” He didn’t need to lay out that that would put the Grangers into danger.

Harry looked mulish. Sirius would have bet a hundred galleons that the boy hated to deny his girlfriend anything, but he wouldn’t go against her wishes. And her wishes were centred on what was best for Harry, not herself. Like Sirius.

“We can leave tomorrow,” he said when no one objected to the proposal.

“I’ll have Julius make arrangements for the Grangers to return to their cruise without catching the wrong kind of attention.” Dumbledore sounded both remorseful and satisfied. Sirius was tempted to ask if they had done what the old wizard had wanted. He didn’t - there was no need to make the situation worse.

Harry was, after all, safe, and the vacation had accomplished what Sirius had hoped for.

*****

Shopping for new school robes could be funny, Ron Weasley thought. Especially if you were shopping for a sixth year robe and had enough gold to not care about the price. And if your best friends were doing the same. And if it took place in Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, the best tailor shop in Diagon Alley.

“They count this as a school robe?” Hermione sounded exasperated while holding up what looked like a bunch of floating strips of fabric.

Ron craned his neck to take a closer look. “Yes.” He grinned at the witch. “Would look good on you too.”

That earned him a glare from both Hermione and Harry. They were still somewhat prudish, despite Sirius’s efforts. “I’m just being honest!” he defended himself.

“I don’t see you going for a minimal loincloth,” Hermione said.

“That’s not fashionable anymore.” He lowered his voice somewhat. “Besides, we’ll be buying robes mostly for protection, right?” He was no expert, but he knew that you needed some space for the runes to enchant robes. Given the number of spells Hermione was planning to cast on their robes, skimpy wouldn’t work as a base. He could always use transfiguration to adapt the style, if he felt like it.

“How’s Padma doing?” Harry asked.

Ron froze for a second. His friend was just making conversation. He didn’t know.

“Ron? Something wrong?” Hermione had picked up on his reaction.

He sighed. “I don’t know how she’s really doing. She’s still in India, and her letters are both very short, and only about the weather and the food.”

“How did she handle the attack on the Express?” Harry had dropped the last robe he had checked out, and was now paying his full attention to Ron, or so it looked to him.

“Not good. Not good at all.” Ron shook his head. “I wanted to, well, be there for her, but apparently, her family didn’t want me nearby.”

Hermione drew a short, sharp breath, Harry just looked grim. Ron didn’t tell them that he expected to break up with the Ravenclaw witch. Instead he changed the topic. “So… wedding clothes?”

Harry groaned and Hermione scowled. At Ron’s questioning glance, she explained: “You didn’t hear yet? We’ll be wearing Bulgarian robes.”

Ron nodded. He knew that those robes were styled differently for purebloods, half-bloods and muggleborns. And anyone who knew Hermione would know how much she hated that.

Harry shook his head. “We’ll not be wearing actual Bulgarian robes. We’ll transfigure ours to match them.”

Ron agreed. He wasn’t keen on giving up his robe’s enchantments, even if only for a few hours. They were at war, and Harry had been attacked in Viktor’s house before.

“If Padma is not coming, will you pick another date for the wedding?” Harry asked.

Ron shook his head. “I doubt it. Most of the girls I know are on vacation.” Or locked up in their homes, afraid for their lives after the attack on the Express. Even Ginny had trouble getting their mum to let her out of the house without an escort.

Hermione had picked up another school robe for sixth years, frowning.

“You know, you could simply buy a fifth year robe, and transfigure it as needed at school,” Ron offered.

“And one accidental or not so accidental finite later, people gossip about Harry not being able to buy me a new robe.” Hermione shook her head. Ron decided not to follow his own advice. Malfoy was dead - and good riddance - but the Slytherins were still slimy snakes, with half of them ready to support the Dark Lord. He wouldn’t be caught like this by them. To be mocked by the likes of Parkinson…

“OK, let’s pick some expensive robes. We’ve got an image to maintain.” That Slytherin was the last witch he wanted to see him in less than perfectly stylish robes.

*****

“There you are! How do you feel? Did you have more nightmares? I wish I could help you!”

If Pansy Parkinson had known how Greengrass would react to Davis getting saved by Pansy, she’d have killed her instead. Alright, not killed her. But maybe have had her obliviated. The bloody twit was hugging her in public now, as if they were best friends. Not even Davis was going that far!

“Greengrass. Davis.” She managed to utter while a blonde airhead tried to crush her ribs.

“Miss Parkinson.” Davis sounded formal. Well, she had good reason to. Pansy might not have created a life debt by helping the two other Slytherins, but they owed her. Now if only Greengrass would act the part as well!

“Are you here to buy your school robes as well?” Pansy managed to ask. Clothes should distract the twit - that had always worked at Hogwarts.

“No, no. But that’s a good idea! Let’s shop together!”

Pansy felt herself dragged towards Madam Malkin’s, blinking, with Davis following at a slightly more sedate pace. They almost ran into Potter, Weasley and Granger at the door - literally. Greengrass stopped just in time to avoid a collision, and Pansy stumbled before she could regain her balance.

When she saw their amused expressions, especially Weasley’s smirk - they thought this was funny - she wondered if anyone would mind if she strangled the twit who had just embarrassed her in the changing room.

“Good afternoon, Miss Parkinson, Miss Greengrass, Miss Davis” Potter said, bowing his head, followed by Weasley and Granger. He was quite old-fashioned. It had a certain charm, she had to admit.

“Mister Potter, Mister Weasley,” Pansy returned the greeting, nodding at the muggleborn witch as well, though not addressing her.

“Have you had a nice holiday so far?” Greengrass asked, making conversation. To Pansy’s surprise, she didn’t try to flirt with Potter. Given the glare Granger had sent at her the last time she tried, that was for the best, in Pansy’s opinion.

“Yes, we did,” Potter answered. “I hope your holiday is going well too.”

“Since I’ve fully recovered from my wounds, yes,” Davis said.

Greengrass nodded repeatedly. “She was saved by Pansy and Greg! They were so brave!” Before Pansy could decide whether or not this had been a veiled insult, likening them to Gryffindors, the blonde sniffled. “And Vincent… he’s dead.”

That seemed to take the three Gryffindors by surprise. Had they already forgotten Vincent’s sacrifice? Didn’t anyone care about his death, other than his family and friends?

“I offer my condolences,” Potter bowed his head again, before she could make up her mind about how to react.

“Thank you,” Pansy pressed out, bowing in return. It wouldn’t do to lose her manners in public.

Weasley looked at her, with a slightly puzzled expression, as he, Potter and Granger moved to the side and let Pansy and the others enter the shop. Pansy almost asked why he was staring at her, but let it slide. She had to buy new robes, after all.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort rubbed the bridge of his nose. He knew his failed ritual was under investigation - not even the worst Auror could have missed it - and he needed a distraction for the next full moon. A ritual the Aurors could find, to misled them. Maybe even trap them. And a corpse to be blamed for it.

The corpse was easy, but a fake ritual? That would require a lot of preparation. Unless he ordered some of his expendable wands to try a ritual without the needed training or talent. That he expected to easily find a suitable sacrifice among the ranks of his followers said more than enough about the kind of people currently making up the bulk of his forces

Speaking of rituals… He looked at the parchment on his desk again. His contact was asking for a lot of gold. But if he came through, then it would have been more than worth it. Bella would be unhappy at missing the chance to personally deal with her family, but he could handle that. And it would be worth it too.

Sooner or later, Potter’s luck had to run out.

*****


	45. Wedding Blues

**Chapter 45: Wedding Blues**

“A marching band?” Hermione Granger looked up from the bills, catalogues, brochures and notes that covered the table in the salon in No. 12, Grimmauld Place, and stared at her boyfriend’s godfather. “It’s a wedding, not a parade!”

Sirius frowned. “That wedding I saw had a marching band! So Nymphadora’s wedding should have a marching band too!” He flicked his wand and a couple of pictures slipped out from underneath a carton filled with flower arrangement examples and floated to the table.

“What?” Hermione grabbed one before it could touch the table, then blinked. She knew that couple. Everyone in muggle Britain knew that couple! “Sirius! That’s Prince Charles’s wedding! That was a state affair!”

The pureblood wizard was just looking at her. “Yes? It’s the biggest muggle wedding I found. In Britain at least.”

Hermione took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and cursed the day the Black-Tonkses and Sirius had decided on having a ‘big expensive muggle wedding’ in addition to the wizarding wedding which would be held in Magical Bulgaria. “Did you run this past Mrs Smith-Forsythe?” She had persuaded him to hire a wedding planner just to avoid this sort of disaster.

“Oh, I didn’t have to. She said we could do whatever we wanted for the trip from the church to the reception, as long as the carriage adhered to the time table provided by her!” The animagus beamed at her.

“You can’t hire a marching band on such short a notice,” the young witch spat out. “They need training for that.”

“That’s what the pilots said too, until I doubled their prices!” Sirius made a dismissing gesture with his hand.

“Pilots?”

“Yes, to drop the rose petals on the street. I just need some permit from the city, but that shouldn’t be hard to get either - those muggle clerks can’t be paid much, right?”

“Are you planning to bribe … “ Hermione blinked suddenly, then laughed. “Ah, curse it! You got me!” She had fallen for a prank, once again!

“Huh?” The older wizard looked at her in apparent confusion. “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t a prank?” Hermione asked, with a weak and forced smile.

“I promised not to do any pranks during the wedding or its preparation,” Sirius said, wincing. “Andromeda threatened to neuter me if I endangered her girl’s big day.”

Hermione was in a mood to neuter the wizard herself. “Trying to bribe officials will lead to problems that could ruin the wedding!”

“Well, the same goes for using magic on them!” Sirius pouted.

“Which means it’s probably a good idea not to do either!” Hermione took a few more deep breaths. As ‘the resident muggle expert’, she had agreed to help Sirius with some last-minute preparations for the wedding next week. She had expected to straighten out details, like flower arrangements, wedding dresses and suits for the guests not used to muggle fashion, maybe sort out accommodations and provide a small guide for behaving at muggle weddings - no more than five feet of parchment. She hadn’t expected to deal with an attempt to outdo the Windsors! Especially not since the muggle wedding was supposed to be a rather small affair, close family and friends only. Unlike the Bulgarian ceremony.

“Well, how do you propose to get the needed permits then? The pilots said they wouldn’t fly without permission,” Sirius asked with a petulant expression.

“How about not hiring them at all?” Hermione snapped. If only Harry was around, but her boyfriend was training self-defense with Remus, and couldn’t… she blinked. “Did you talk to Harry about this?”

“He said to ask you.”

Hermione ground her teeth in frustration. It was probably payback for involving him in the struggle to show Nymphadora the difference between a luxury wedding dress and a dress fit for a punk wedding, but this was his godfather, not hers! Sirius really had too much money, and not enough sense, at least not when it came to muggle culture. Her eyes widened when she had an idea.

“Sirius,” she began, waving her left hand at the pamphlets and brochures on the table, “most of that will look really tacky to muggles.”

“That can’t be! If it’s good enough for a prince, it’s good enough for Nymphadora!”

“It will look tacky because old muggle families would never try to outshine the Royal Family.”

“Why not, if they have the money?”

“Tradition. If you do this, people will think you’re a nouveau-riche without manners or class.” She had to suppress a relieved smile when she saw that he finally understood.

“Oh.”

“Yes. Now, you can trust your wedding planner, she’s the expert, and she’ll have organized a classy and expensive wedding for you.” The woman better have, considering her rates, Hermione added to herself. Not that the Bulgarian guests the Black-Tonkses and Sirius were trying to impress would know those nuances anyway.

“Does that mean we can’t use the elephant I ordered either?”

Hermione’s wand was halfway out of her holster before she could control herself.

*****

“Oh, I remember Lily’s wedding… it was a much smaller affair. Not as… expensive.”

Harry Potter glanced at Dudley while his aunt sighed, looking at the dress she was holding. His cousin shrugged. The two of them as well as Uncle Vernon had gotten their suits already, and rather quickly. But apparently, picking the correct dress for a wedding took more time. Much more time, even without trips down the memory lane.

“Yes, dear,” Vernon said, nodding. “Though there was no magical wedding afterwards, to compete with.” The big and - despite his diet - still hefty man smiled. Harry knew from his childhood that his uncle understood the wish to keep up with the neighbours very well.

“As long as this remains a normal wedding, everything will be fine,” Petunia stated, putting the dress down and picking up another to try on. Harry didn’t quite roll his eyes, but he shared another long-suffering look with Dudley. He had reassured his uncle and aunt several times in the last week - he was sleeping at 4 Privet Drive until their trip to Bulgaria, to renew the blood protection - that there wouldn’t be any magic at the wedding.

“It’s a purely normal wedding, Aunt Petunia. Nymphadora insisted; she’s quite a fan of muggle culture.” Harry didn’t think he should add that keeping the wedding purely muggle also turned it in an exotic affair for wizards and witches not unlike those shown in the BBC documentaries. His family wouldn’t appreciate that at all.

While Petunia vanished into a changing room and Vernon looked for a chair to sit down, Dudley leaned towards Harry and whispered: “Our trip to Diagon Alley’s still on, right?”

“Yes.” Dudley loved the Wizarding shopping area, especially Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. “Just remember not to buy anything too obvious.”

“I know, I know. I wouldn’t do that to my parents,” Dudley said, though Harry wasn’t quite certain if he could believe him. His cousin had seemed intrigued when Hermione had mentioned how irresponsible products like ‘Skiving Snackboxes’ were during dinner last night.

“Just don’t get caught. Can’t fool the wizards as easily as we fooled teachers.”

Dudley chuckled and slapped him on the back. Harry didn’t wince, even though he felt like it - his cousin’s boxing training apparently had increased his already considerable strength some more. “I won’t squeal on you, don’t worry.”

“Squeal on me? It’s not as if I’m responsible for you.”

“But you’re a prefect now - the enemy.”

“You sound like Fred and George!”

Dudley took that as a compliment, and his good mood lasted through the hour it took Harry’s aunt to decide on a dress.

*****

Viktor Krum fidgeted in the unfamiliar clothes. Even with discreet charms on them they felt uncomfortable - if he hadn’t checked, twice, he’d have thought they were cursed. Why had he let his bride to be persuade him to have a British muggle wedding again? Ah, yes - so that the real wedding would be a traditional Bulgarian affair. In Bulgaria. His family had been so smug, sure to have gotten the better of the Black-Tonkses. They weren’t looking that smug now, stuck in the muggle church. A Christian church even! His team manager had gone spare until Viktor had managed to explain that it was simply tradition to have it in a church, not a religious statement. He wasn’t converting. Even so, it might cost him some fans, but he had enough of them.

He glanced at the guests to distract himself. His family looked as uncomfortable in muggle clothes as he felt. Nymphadora’s family looked at ease, but he had expected that. Nymphadora’s father was a half-blood, after all. And Harry’s family were muggles. Quite shy though - with the exception of his cousin. Dudley had asked him for an autograph even. And of course, there were the four Veela with Sirius, who attracted envious and lecherous glances from half the guests. There would be trouble in Bulgaria, he knew that.

He went over his lines in his head again, and felt himself grow more nervous. What if he made a faux pas? Embarrassed his family? This was just a muggle event, he told himself. A show, not a real wedding. Not legally binding. It didn’t help much. Legal wedding or not, he didn’t want to disappoint Nymphadora. And her family - or rather, Sirius - had obviously spent a lot of gold on this. Or muggle paper. The carriages, the catering - his suggestion to use McDonald’s had been shot down at once - and the elephant rides for the children (and Miss Lovegood) would have been expensive. He glanced at the blonde witch, sitting in the second row and scribbling on a muggle notepad. She was attending as Ron’s date, but her father’s magazine had been given the exclusive right to cover the wedding, mostly to keep other reporters from the event, but she obviously took this very seriously.

The muggle music - impressive, he had to admit, if completely different from the muggle music he had heard in the clubs of London - changed suddenly. He turned around, right in time to see the doors open.

Viktor knew that a lot of people had arrived with the bride and were now entering, but he didn’t notice them. He didn’t even notice the father of the bride. All his attention was captured by the sight of Nymphadora, clad in a white dress that he was almost certain had taken magic to don, walking down the aisle. Towards him.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter to him at all that this was not a legal wedding.

*****

By the time dessert was being served at the wedding banquet, Hermione Granger was finally relaxing. Things had gone well. Better than she had feared, in any case. Sirius had behaved, and consequently, Harry hadn’t lost his godfather to Andromeda’s wand.

“Hermione!” Luna sat down next to her, on the seat Harry had vacated to join the Quidditch discussion at the next table with Ron. The blonde witch put her big notepad on the table, toppling a half-full glass of wine. “Oops! I keep forgetting that those glasses are not charmed against spilling. Nor the tablecloths against staining.”

While Luna was staring at the wine making its way to the edge of the table, seemingly fascinated by the lack of magic, Hermione reached over and used her napkin to mop the liquid up before it reached her own lap. Not that the dress she had to wear as part of Nymphadora’s bridesmaids would have been a big loss. The muggleborn witch had already decided she’d not inflict such torturous clothing on her own bridesmaids. If she ever married. A muggle wedding, the only option for her and Harry, was not recognized in Wizarding Britain, after all. It would be no more than an act for her parents, at best a gesture of defiance against unjust laws. Harry’s mother had taken that option, Hermione knew. Probably for the very reasons she was thinking of. And Lily had stayed a mere concubine in the eyes of Wizarding Britain even after she had been killed by Voldemort. The Wizengamot had granted a posthumous adoption of Harry by his father, making him a pureblood. Retroactively making his muggle marriage legal had not crossed anyone’s mind as far as Hermione could tell. And if it had, it would have been dismissed to avoid creating a precedent, she was certain of that.

“Hermione!”

A finger poking her side interrupted her gloomy thoughts - maybe she shouldn’t have drunk that second glass of wine.

“It’s a wedding! Think happy thoughts! Imagine your own wedding!” Luna beamed at her.

“I did.” She smiled weakly.

“Ah… but… oh!” Luna’s eyes opened wide. “Do you fear you’ll not have as beautiful a wedding as this? Sirius would certainly not skimp on his godson’s wedding! You’ll probably have an elephant as well. Maybe a flying one, if Hagrid manages to crossbreed it with a pegasus! Imagine, flying rides!”

The muggleborn witch didn’t like to dampen her friend’s enthusiasm - Luna had thoroughly enjoyed riding the elephant Sirius had managed to acquire through means Hermione didn’t really want to know more about - but she wasn’t in the mood for smiling and nodding and pretending all was well.

“I’ve no doubt that I’d have a great muggle wedding. But it wouldn’t mean anything since unlike Nymphadora, I won’t get a magical wedding.” If she was marrying Harry. But at the moment, she couldn’t imagine, or didn’t want to, marrying anyone else.

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’,” Hermione said, refilling her glass and waving her hand into the direction of Nymphadora, who was dancing with her father. “For her, this is just a party. A show to impress Viktor’s family. Exotic dinner entertainment. What the Weasleys like to provide for their guests, just on a more grandiose scale.”

Luna’s face fell, and Hermione was briefly confused, until she remembered that the Lovegoods weren’t exactly throwing or attending many dinner parties. They were actually seen by some as exotic dinner entertainment themselves. She suppressed her guilt though, and continued. “For me, such a wedding would be as close as I can get to marrying Harry.” Close enough to hurt, she thought. And the likes of Parkinson and Greengrass would mock her behind her back for aping a real wedding. She downed her wine. “I want more than an illusion, more than a sham!”

“But does it matter how you marry, as long as you two love each other?” Luna looked like someone had just proven to her that Snorkacks did not exist. Or had died out just before she could find one.

“Of course it matters! Unless we can marry in Wizarding Britain, our children will be muggleborns like myself!” Hermione spat out.

Her friend looked utterly confused now. The ranting witch suddenly realised that Luna really didn’t understand how bad this was. Sighing, she refilled her glass again. “They’d be third-class citizens. Looked down upon. Unable to marry who they want. And they’d have a Patron.”

“But… Harry would be their Patron. He’d have the same power over them if they were pureblood anyway. That’s not a bad thing; he’s your Patron too,” Luna said, still looking lost.

“Do you think I like being his retainer? Do you think he likes being my Patron?”

“You… you don’t?” The blonde Ravenclaw was staring at her, with her mouth open and her lips trembling.

“No, we don’t.”

“But… you love each other.” Luna sounded as if she couldn’t bear to turn this into a question.

“Yes, we do. But that’s despite him being my Patron.” Hermione sighed again when she saw Luna still didn’t understand. “Luna… both Harry and I grew up in muggle Britain. We think people in a relationship should be equal.”

“But even if you both were purebloods, Harry would be the Head of the Family,” Luna stated.

“That’s wrong too! At least the French have two heads per family.” Hermione scoffed. The French also let their Patrons exercise far more power over muggleborns than what would be tolerated in Britain, but that was another topic. “Not that it matters since we wouldn’t be able to marry in Magical France either.” She stared at her once again empty glass.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” Luna had tears in her eyes now.

Hermione’s guilt reasserted itself despite the wine she had consumed. “Luna…” she began.

The blonde witch shook her head, interrupting her: “But you’re the most brilliant witch at Hogwarts! Even if things look gloom, you can’t lose hope! You’ll find a way to achieve your dreams!”

Hermione was touched, and felt her spirits lift. Luna was right - she shouldn’t despair. She and Harry would beat Voldemort, and then they’d beat Britain’s bigotry! If Lily had lived, she certainly wouldn’t have stayed James’ concubine.

“Just as I’ll find Snorkacks, you’ll find a way to marry Harry!”

Hermione closed her eyes and resisted the urge to refill her glass again.

*****

Watching Nymphadora and Viktor leave for their ‘wedding night rehearsal’, as he liked to call it, Sirius Black felt prouder than at the time he and his friends had managed to turn the entire Slytherin dorm including the students red and gold - right before the end of the 6th year feast. Viktor’s family seemed suitably impressed by the ceremony, most guests were thoroughly sloshed, and the dessert buffet was as delicious as the cook had promised. In short, the wedding was a huge success. It had cost quite some galleons, but then, that prank in 6th year had cost Gryffindor the House Cup. Worth it though. So worth it.

The wizard was on his way back to his table, where Valérie and Laure were animatedly chatting with a Bulgarian witch. Chantal and Eugénie would be outside, checking the wards. They didn’t trust the Aurors and Hit-Wizards providing security - hidden from muggle eyes - that much. Well, neither did he, truth to be told, which is why he had hired some of those mercenaries Aberforth Dumbledore had brought back from the Balkans to protect the wedding.

Passing a waitress, he snatched a bottle from her tray, feeling proud for not having drawn his wand to summon it. That had taken a bit to get used to, seeing people serve food with their hands. Not too much though, once he had seen the waitresses. Now if they were wearing wizard fashion… a wizard could dream, couldn’t he? And weddings inspired a certain type of dream, not only in witches, he mentally added as he saw Valérie lean back and laugh at something the Bulgarian had said. Just like Lily, back...

Instead of continuing towards her, Sirius turned to the side entrance to the banquet hall, to get some fresh air while he let his thoughts turn back to what he remembered of James’s wedding. He didn’t remember everything, not after Azkaban. He only knew the Dursleys had been there because Petunia had told him that, earlier. But he remembered his friends saying their vows. Remembered them kissing. He didn’t remember, not really, what they had been wearing, but he had seen the pictures at the Dursleys. They had been so happy, every one of them, but especially James and Lily. The war had been very far away, then. Watching his friends, he had been certain everything would end well. Nothing would destroy their happiness.

But of course, he had been wrong. So terribly, tragically wrong. He had been young, and dumb, and careless. His own fault. And that traitor’s! For a moment, he wanted to smash the bottle in his hand at the wall next to him, just to vent some of his anger. He didn’t though. This was a wedding; he’d not ruin it by losing control and making a scene. Remus was probably making the rounds outside for the same reason. His best friend wouldn’t be taking the memories this event brought up any better than Sirius himself.

He took a few deep breaths of the evening air, then entered the hall again. Hermione and Luna were chatting a few tables away. The brunette - she had gotten rid of the dye as soon as they had left Jamaica, even though everyone knew ‘blondes had more fun’ - was probably correcting some of Luna’s misconceptions about muggles. Or something. Harry was chatting with the Dursleys. It looked like his godson’s family was about to leave already. Sirius dimly remembered they had left the other wedding early as well, and Lily had been angry later, at him. Or something.

In a few years, at most, there would be another muggle wedding in the family, Sirius was certain. Harry and Hermione’s wedding would be an even bigger affair, though. Just like James’ and Lily’s, it would be their only wedding, so it would have to be perfect! And this time, he’d get the permits for the planes in advance!

He walked towards his table, towards Valérie again. She was smiling brightly at him, she must have been missing him. He sat down next to her, leaning over to kiss her cheek. Under the table, he slid his hand over her thigh, enjoying how she tensed for an instant, holding her breath, before her smile turned just a shade sultry.

He imagined her, in Nymphadora’s dress. Or something similar. Maybe he should start a tradition of the Blacks having muggle weddings before their magical ones. The d’Aigles would like to have a Magical Wedding in France, he thought. And his bigoted parents would be turning in their graves.

*****

“Thank you for coming!”

Harry Potter smiled at his family - the muggle part of it, to be precise. His aunt and uncle had stayed longer than he had expected, even with the lack of magic so far. Overt magic, at least.

“It was great, Harry!” Dudley grinned. “Though your godfather is still crazy. Elephant rides? At a wedding?”

Harry chuckled. “You should have seen his other ideas. Hermione pretty much went spare trying to rein him in.” He still didn’t know, didn’t want to know, how Sirius had gotten an elephant. ‘Plausible deniability’, his girlfriend had called it.

“I can imagine!” Dudley chuckled. “I still can’t believe he didn’t prank anyone.”

“Andromeda, the mother of the bride, had had a word with him,” Harry explained.

“Must’ve been quite a word, to make him behave.” Dudley shook his head - he was rather familiar with Sirius’s antics from Harry’s tales. And from his own experience.

“It was a lovely wedding Harry,” Aunt Petunia said. “And impressive. But we should be heading home now, it’s already quite late.”

Uncle Vernon nodded in agreement, but Harry could see that the man was warily eyeing a group of drunk Bulgarians. He could understand them - as people got drunk, they were likely to forget that they were not supposed to use magic. The muggle staff would be sent home soon.

“Of course.” He shook hands with Vernon, kissed his aunt on her cheek, and slapped Dudley on the back.

His cousin returned the favor, then whispered into his ear: “Just imagine what Sirius will do for your wedding.”

Harry forced himself to laugh as his family left the hall, but grew serious as soon as they had left his sight. His wedding. With Hermione. He wasn’t even sixteen yet, and people were talking about marriage!

Not that he didn’t want to marry Hermione. But in the future. After Voldemort was dead for good. And he wanted to marry her properly. Show everyone that she was his wife, his partner, not his retainer or concubine!

Though he’d settle for a muggle wedding, if that was all he, they could get. He just hoped Hermione would settle for a muggle wedding as well, if it came down to that. But that was a question for the future.

*****

“Take these instructions and study them carefully - much depends on that ritual. Not least your own standing among my followers,” the Dark Lord Voldemort declared as he handed over a sealed scroll to Uesli Rosier-Flens. “And breathe not a word, not even a hint, to anyone else about this.”

The Ravenclaw’s eyes widened when he understood what Voldemort was hinting at, and he bowed deeply. “I will perform my duty to the utmost of my ability, my lord!” he declared, bowing deeply.

“I know. Bellatrix will observe your ritual, just as a precaution, of course. I trust you,” the Dark Lord said, and smiled when he saw the wizard pale some, before the man’s greed overcame his fear again.

Voldemort dismissed him with a nod, and watched him leave. The fool would be thinking of advancing into the Dark Lord’s inner circle, and apply himself accordingly, never suspecting that he was but a distraction. A necessary sacrifice, since Dumbledore had to be suspicious after the Dark Lord’s last ritual had gone out of control. A follower of average skill from a rather poor branch of a pureblood family was a small price to pay if it kept his old foe from disturbing the real ritual.

He turned his head to look at his Bellatrix, standing at his side. “You know your task.”

“Yes. I won’t fail you, my lord.”

He nodded. The task was easy enough for a witch of her power. He’d not even send her, if not for the need to keep it secret. His followers couldn’t know about this.

He sat down at his desk, dispelling the charm that kept anyone from catching even a glimpse of it. “Did Barty’s old contact send word?”

“He did, my lord. He is willing, though he demands a high price.” Bellatrix sneered, clearly angry at the audacity of anyone making demands towards him.

“If he succeeds, it’ll be worth it. And if he fails…” Voldemort smiled. He was not in the habit to reward failure. Not even a wizard working for the Sublime Porte was beyond his reach. Especially not when revealing the wizard’s role in two attacks on Potter would see the wizard facing Dumbledore - which would cause him to spill everything he knew about Voldemort’s interest in genies in an attempt to save himself. An interest the Dark Lord had taken care to fake in his dealings with Abdul al-Samar.

No matter if the attack on Potter succeeded or not, Dumbledore would have to deal with the Ottoman Empire. And Voldemort knew from personal experience just how much that would take.

Between the fake ritual and the attack on Potter, Dumbledore would be hard-pressed to find out, much less stop his real plans.

*****

Bulgaria, or at least the customs area for arrivals by international portkey, hadn’t changed since last summer, Hermione thought. A cushioned floor, buckets for those who got travel-sick, stern-faced guards in black robes brimming with enchantments guarding the door to a large hall with grey walls and pillars. If anything, the number of guards had been increased, in her impression - though that might have just been a reaction to Viktor’s presence. Knowing that Bulgaria’s most famous Quidditch player was counted among Voldemort’s enemies would likely cause the government to increase security for his appearances. Of course, it could also be a reaction to the sheer number of British wedding guests who were expected to arrive over the next few days.

“Welcome to Bulgaria, my friends!” Viktor greeted them warmly. Boris Stankoiev, Viktor’s best friend, was with him, as were a few more young wizards and witches Hermione recognized from the wedding in London.

“Hello Viktor!” Sirius smiled at the star seeker. “Are you already looking for excuses to be away from home? That’s usually reserved for after the honeymoon!”

Viktor chuckled - politely, Hermione thought, it had been a really bad joke. “No, though I do confess that I don’t regret getting away from the preparations at home for a bit. My mother is in a frenzy.”

“Women usually are when it comes to weddings. They take them far too seriously. Everything has to be perfect, as if the marriage would fail otherwise.” The animagus shook his head.

Hermione gaped for a second at the hypocrisy. Sirius had driven her almost crazy with his near-obsession about Nymphadora’s muggle wedding! She managed to refrain from commenting - or hexing Sirius - with some effort.

The others, especially the wizards, seemed to find his comment funny though, and laughter accompanied them to the Floo central of Sofia. A brief trip later, they arrived in the home of Viktor’s parents.

That had changed, of course - the house had been completely rebuilt, after having burned down by Fiendfyre last summer. The young witch shivered briefly at the memory, then felt Harry’s hand slide into hers, squeezing it reassuringly. Viktor’s family had chosen the same style for the new house - wood panels, carved and lacquered, on the walls, and woven carpets on the wooden floor. Everything looked new though, and more expensive. It lacked the old, lived in and welcoming impression the old house had had. Or maybe that was just Hermione’s subjective impression, since the house also lacked Lala, the muggleborn witch killed during the attack last summer. That she had to play the obedient retainer again, in public, didn’t help her mood any.

While Sirius and Viktor’s father went through the formalities of hospitality, Hermione spotted a young witch wearing the muggleborn clothes, and the same crest Lala had worn. Obviously her replacement as representative of the family’s lower house - the muggleborns.

“Welcome to the household of the Krum Family. I am Ioana Kalinieva,” she said, bowing. For a moment Hermione saw Lana there, the words were identical.

“Hello. I’m Hermione.”

“Let me show you your room, and the house.” The witch smiled, though Hermione thought it lacked the open friendliness of Lana. Or maybe she was just feeling guilt still over the witch’s death, and resented seeing her replaced.

Stepping out of the Floo room, Hermione could see that the house was also larger than its predecessor. And definitely more expensive. It looked like Viktor’s father had decided to use the occasion to demonstrate his family’s new wealth. The witch wondered, briefly, if that had led to troubles with the rest of the clan, but didn’t voice her thoughts.

“This is your room for the duration of your stay.” The girl presented a cozy, decently-sized room.

“My official guest room, right?” Hermione asked, smiling slightly.

“Yes.” Ioana’s eyebrows rose a bit. “You’ll not be sleeping in here then.”

Hermione chuckled, remembering her reaction last year. “No, things changed since last year’s visit.”

“Ah. Viktor said you’d become the official mistress of the Head of the Potter family, but his mother was not certain what that entailed. I’ll show you his room.”

The young British witch didn’t bother to correct the other girl. Bulgarian customs were just a bit too different to easily handle the exact nature of her relationship to her patron. Like she was considered a member of the Potter family, but not allowed to use the name, it was easier to simply nod and go along with. ‘Official mistress’ was close enough anyway. Hopefully Sirius wouldn’t make too much fun of her and Harry, once he heard about it.

Harry’s room - though lacking his presence at the moment - was far larger, and far more luxurious than she remembered. Expansion charms, she assumed. Unless Viktor’s family had really gone overboard and had replaced their house with a mansion. It was furnished for a couple - two armoires, two desks even, and one big bed.

She smiled at the sight. After the fortnight Harry had had to sleep at the Dursleys, she was looking forward to sleeping with him again. And waking up in his arms.

*****

Sirius Black rarely envied his best friend. Remus hadn’t much to be envious of, in his opinion. Even discounting his lycanthropy, Sirius was better looking, had four gorgeous Veela girlfriends, a great godson, far more gold, and didn’t have to deal with stupid children all year. On the other hand, Remus wasn’t currently in Bulgaria, in a village where half the population - or more - seemed to think his four aforementioned gorgeous Veela girlfriends were out to seduce the wizards and wreck families.

The villagers hadn’t exactly said anything, that would have angered and shamed Viktor’s family, but the looks the Veela got were clear enough. Viktor’s best man explaining that Sirius was so rich, none of the Veela would risk losing him for a Bulgarian villager hadn’t gone over well with either the villagers nor Sirius’s girlfriends. It had been high time to take out a broom and do some flying.

“The village looks much better from above,” Valérie, flying next to him, said. His love was still not flying as well as she had before she had gotten cursed, maybe she never would, but she could fly more than well enough now to enjoy the sky once more.

“Oh, yes. Jalouses idiotes!” Laure agreed, gliding on an updraft. “We cannot ‘ear them from up ‘ere, and we can barely see them.”

Sirius wisely - in his opinion - did not disagree. The village did look pretty from above. What damage the raid last year had done had been repaired. At least as far as he could tell. A few more days, and then there’d be the wedding. Two days before the full moon, on a Sunday, as Bulgarian tradition demanded. Tomorrow was the day the two ‘farewell to freedom parties’, one for the bride, one for the groom, would be held. Another Bulgarian tradition Sirius approved of.

And after the wedding, they’d return to Britain. Just in time to avoid the full moon and to celebrate Harry’s birthday at home. At least his godson seemed to enjoy his time here in Bulgaria. The boy was currently out with Viktor and Ron, who had arrived from Romania, where he had visited Charlie Weasley. The three were apparently ‘broom hunting’ in the forest. Wandlessly, to boot - what foolishness. Though as long as it was fun, who was Sirius to judge them? And yet, Harry would be glad to return as well. As Sirius’s father had said once - one of the only pieces of advice of his sire Sirius had not rejected - a wizard couldn’t be happy if his witch wasn’t happy. And Hermione wasn’t happy in Bulgaria. She wasn’t treated like the Veela were, but he knew she resented the strict caste society Bulgaria had. She had been ranting about it often enough. That the young witch had accepted the traditional Bulgarian robes for the wedding was a miracle, seeing as they’d mark her as a muggleborn. She spent the days studying in their room, sometimes not even attending meals if Harry was away. Sirius didn’t know what exactly she was studying, but it wasn’t school work.

Ah well… a few more days, and the wedding would be done, and everyone could return to their normal lives, and only had to deal with the weird relatives at family gatherings. Sirius smiled and started a dive, prompting the four Veela to chase after him.

*****

The duck was flying as fast as its wings allowed, so close to the water its feet seemed to drag through the water, headed to a patch of reed. It knew the area, and it had a head start. Harry Potter though was the youngest seeker at Hogwarts in a hundred years. And he was on the finest broom currently on the open market. And ducks were not exactly the best flyers, and far bigger than a snitch. He was on it in a heartbeat, his hand snatching out and gripping the bird by the neck.

“Hah!” he held the flapping, quacking bird up while Ron and Viktor caught up. “I’m in the lead again.”

“By a duck,” Viktor scoffed, though he was grinning. “The only game easier to catch than a duck would be a dead duck.”

“Like in Quidditch, what matters is the catch,” Ron said, coming to a stop next to the two. His broom was slower than the ones of the two seekers’, though far more maneuverable. A keeper’s broom. Viktor had offered him one of his older brooms, but Ron had refused, claiming he wanted to fly as much as possible on the broom he’d fly in games.

Harry let the bird go, watching as it fled and disappeared into the closest patch of reed.

“Don’t you want to impress Hermione with your prowess as a hunter?” Viktor asked.

Harry glared at the Bulgarian while Ron chuckled and said: “She’d not be impressed, she might not be a Quidditch fan, but she knows how easy it is for Harry to catch birds.”

Harry chuckled while he nodded, though he knew Hermione might not consider the double-entendre that amusing. His girlfriend might also say something about archaic and barbaric views and outdated values - she ranted about Bulgaria’s customs often enough, though he thought part of that was born from her current frustration with her research. He wouldn’t mention that though - it was both a bit impolite towards their gracious hosts, and would endanger Dumbledore’s plans.

A sudden movement to his left drew his attention. He turned his head and spotted a broom rider above them, flying towards them. No, half a dozen disillusioned broom riders, his enchanted glasses informed him. Then he saw the disillusioned figures flying nearby without brooms.

“Watch out!”

He was already moving, his broom accelerating, when the first spells flew towards them. He easily evaded them, pulling around, but then he suddenly found himself struggling not to be swept from his broom by unnaturally violent and strong winds.

*****

Doruk didn’t know how the Boy-Who-Lived had spotted him and his wands - they should have been out of the range of any detection spells, none of the Bulgarian patrols had detected them - but he had, and spoiled their surprise attack. Fortunately, he and his men had come prepared for that. Anti-Portkey and Anti-Apparition Jinxes were already in place while the genies their employer had provided were preventing the target from escaping on his broom. No one could fly through a storm controlled by a djinn!

But the storm would also attract the attention of the Bulgarian peasants. His men were already diving towards the boys caught in the storm - the days of waiting for such an opportunity, dodging the villagers and the guests exploring the countryside had left them champing at the bit to finish the job.

A bit too eager. Emre was already casting, the fool - his Piercing Curse would never hit anything in the storm at that range. And Harun was rushing ahead, leaving the others on slower brooms behind. He was a good wizard, experienced, but sometimes a bit too sure of himself. Doruk hoped this wouldn’t be one of those times.

He himself stayed back. He wouldn’t be rushing into close combat, not even when he had double the number of wands and genies on his side. That was what he paid his men for. As his father used to say: “A leader needs to stay behind, so he doesn’t lose sight of the big picture.” Pity his father hadn’t heeded his own advice, 30 years ago, and had been caught with his robes up by French Gendarmes Magiques.

*****

Harry Potter fought to keep control over his Firebolt while the sudden storm was doing its best to smash him into the ground. He had been in worse, back in the tournament. Or almost as bad. But back then he hadn’t had a dozen enemies bearing down on him and his friends. Still, he wasn’t quite panicking. A quick glance showed him that both Viktor and Ron were still flying, and seemed to manage - so far.

Then the first broom rider came at him. He must have pushed his broom to leave the others behind, Harry thought, and he wasn’t slowing down. A bit further, and only a professional seeker would be able to pull up in time avoid a crash. Harry was rather certain that his attacker wasn’t a professional Quidditch player.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A normal spell would have almost no chance to hit anything in a storm that pushed both Harry and his target around. His corporal patronus though wasn’t affected by the wind - and could aim itself. It couldn’t really hurt the man, of course - not by itself. But few could ignore a glowing, flying stag barrelling at them. Harry heard a shriek, and then saw the man crash into the ground with flailing arms.

He hesitated for an instant, then pointed his wand at the crash site. “Confringo!” The earth around the crashed broom blew up, ensuring that if the man had survived the crash he’d still be in no shape to return to the fight.

Then the other four wizards were in range, and spells started to rain down on him. Hitting a broom rider in this storm while riding a broom was almost impossible though. He started to weave, even corkscrew, to make it harder still. “Aeroarmaguttis!”

With the shield surrounding him and his broom, the noise from the wind and the force of the storm both lessened and his speed increased. He could easily escape and fly back to village, to get help. But that would mean he’d leave his friends to face the attackers alone - and the village patrols should have noticed the storm by now. Still, getting out of the storm was a good idea. He urged his broom on and banked right, to the edge of the storm.

And flew into a wall.

His aerodynamic shield shattered, but it had managed to cushion the impact enough to let the enchantments on his robe save his life. Even so he was thrown off the broom, and crashed into the bushes lining the pond. He felt his left arm break - after five years playing seeker, he was quite familiar with the sensation - and rolled a few yards, stones and roots hurting him further, with the cushioning enchantments spent already. Panting and groaning with pain, he stood up, fighting the storm’s fury - and saw all four broom riders shoot towards him.

“Protego!”

He dove forward, screaming in pain when his broken arm touched the ground, and almost collapsed then and there as spells hit the ground around him, throwing up dust and fragments that both hindered and hid him.

He spotted one of the attackers flying very close to the ground and pointed his wand at him, pouring as much power into the spell as he could.

“Aguamenti!”

The jet of water that spewed forth from the tip of his wand missed the man, but Harry corrected his aim, and the attacker was pushed off his broom… no, he stayed on the broom, but was now flying upside down - a Sticking Charm’s work, Harry realised. A Piercing Curse hit his new Shield Charm, battering it, and Harry had to drop the Water-Making Spell and evade, allowing the wizard he had hit to regain control of his broom.

A few spells flew at them from the side - Viktor had arrived! - but missed the attackers. It had given Harry some breathing room though, and he managed to raise a few walls to give him some additional protection. They weren’t as good as Hermione’s, but they’d do. He flicked his wand as spells started to rip into his walls, and transfigured debris on the ground into small daggers. Dozens of them. Then he banished the lot of them at the next broom rider who came at him.

Even with the storm spoiling everyone’s aim, and the unsteady path the broom rider was flying, enough of the daggers hit to wound the wizard. Harry aimed his wand to try and hit him with a curse, now that the man’s shield was down, but the wizard pulled up and fled before he could cast.

Another wizard dove at him, wildly casting. And from the side, a third… no! That was Ron! Harry’s friend flew straight at the other broom rider, and for a moment he feared Ron would ram the wizard. But the redhead had just gotten so close that he couldn’t miss anymore - and while his shield absorbed the curse sent at him, his own spell shattered the shield of his opponent, and the follow-up spell blew up the man’s face.

One wounded, two down for the count. But there had been six at the start, and Harry could only see three of them around. And an unknown number of other figures, probably those controlling the storm.

His first wall shattered under the assault from an attacker, and Harry was about to replace it when Ron stopped near him. “Get up!” his best friend shouted. “We’ll have to leave here!”

“There are walls around us! I crashed against one!” Harry shouted back, but he nevertheless mounted Ron’s broom. Apparition was blocked anyway, but maybe if they got far enough...

“Bloody hell!” Ron cursed, wiping some blood from his face. “They can’t have walls all around us - they couldn’t have entered themselves, otherwise!“

“Right. Time to hide. Take us down there, near the pond.”

Ron did so. On the way, Harry cast a series of blasting curses, throwing up enough dust to obscure them from view. As soon as they had landed he pulled out his cloak of invisibility while Ron shrank his broom down. Then the two raised more walls before slipping under the cloak.

“We’re not exactly first years anymore!” Ron commented as it became apparent just how much they had grown since Harry had received the cloak.

“You’ve been eating too much, but it’ll work well enough,” Harry countered as the two started to make their way towards the border of the storm. After a few minutes that felt like an eternity, during which the walls they had left were reduced to rubble and the pond next to them hit with a dozen curses, and his broken arm had been bumped against Ron twice, they staggered out of the storm’s area.

“Bet that’s the leader,” Ron said, “up there, hovering.”

“Yes. Must have dropped the Disillusion Charm. Fool. Cast on three,” Harry agreed.

“One. Two. Three.”

*****

Doruk was staring at the raging storm, trying to find his target and cursing his useless hired wands when suddenly, his Shield Charm was shattered and he was almost thrown off his broom. Before he could react or recover, more spells hit him, barely stopped by his robe’s protection. Why couldn’t he see the enemy? The Anti-Disillusionment Jinxes were still working!

He started to accelerate, but knew it was too late. One Blasting Curse clipped his broom and destroyed the bristles, sending him plummeting down to the ground. And the spells kept coming. A Piercing Curse hit his shoulder, and he screamed with pain.

Then he hit the ground and didn’t feel anything anymore.

*****

“Hah!” Harry Potter spat through clenched teeth when he saw the wizard leading the attack smash into the ground.

“It doesn’t look like he did control the storm though,” Ron commented.

“There are flying creatures up there, they have to be the ones responsible.”

“Damn. What kind of creatures?” Ron was looking at the sky, trying to spot them.

“Human looking ones. I didn’t see wings.” Harry couldn’t see anyone either… there! “I see one. Almost transparent.”

“Has to be a djinn. They’re rumored to be able to turn to air.” Ron shook his head. “Looks like the Ottomans.”

“Does fire work on them?”

“Should work.”

Before they could cast though the figure Harry had discovered fled the area and the storm started to quiet down, revealing two broom riders left - one wounded - and Viktor. Harry was wounded, and he knew he should retreat to the village. Viktor should do the same - the attackers would never catch him on his broom. But he was hurt, and angry, and fed up with getting attacked and endangering others everywhere.

He glanced at Ron. “Let’s get them!”

“Yes.” Ron nodded grimly, raising his wand. Apparently, he was fed up with getting attacked too.

Their spells hit one attacker before the man noticed them. His defenses must have been depleted already by Viktor, Harry thought, while the remains of man and broom fell into the pond. The other one tried to flee, but neither his skill nor his broom was up to the task of escaping from the best seeker in Europe, and Viktor soon brought the man down as well.

“You know, they’ll be angry with us, for this, but it was worth it,” Ron said, taking deep breaths to calm down.

“Viktor’s family, for ruining the area?” Harry’s arm was starting to hurt too much to focus properly.

“No, Sirius and Hermione, for not fleeing when we had the chance.” Ron chuckled. “They’ll focus on you though.”

“Damn! I’ll tell them you had the only broom available, and wanted to finish them off.”

“What? It was your suggestion!”

“Obviously I was not thinking straight due to my broken arm, and you failed to pull me out of harm’s way,” Harry chuckled, then winced when the movement caused his arm to hurt even more.

“You can’t blame me for this!” Ron protested.

“I can’t very well blame Viktor, can I? We’re his guests.”

Their host looked very surprised when he found the two of them sitting on the ground and laughing almost hysterically.

*****


	46. Plots

**Chapter 46: Plots**

An hour later, Harry Potter and his best mate Ron Weasley were not laughing anymore. It seemed as if everyone apart from Viktor was mad at them. But Viktor wasn’t there, in Harry’s room. The Bulgarian was helping with organizing his family’s response to the attack. Lucky him. The surviving attackers had been taken away by the Bulgarian guards, but Harry didn’t expect much to come from their interrogation - Voldemort covered his tracks very well, and they wouldn’t know anything important.

“What were you thinking? Outnumbered I don’t know how badly, facing Ottoman raiders and genies - genies! - and you attack? Didn’t we train for such a situation? If you get ambushed, the enemy has the advantage! If you can retreat, you do so!” Sirius was pacing in front of the two, gesticulating wildly. Harry’s godfather was furious. Valérie, Chantal, Laure and Eugénie didn’t look that happy either, standing at the wall, and Hermione… Harry winced when he remembered how she had arrived at the partially destroyed pond, sitting on the back of Sirius’s broom, anger and worry etched on her face.

“We had the advantage, and we had to help Viktor,” Ron put forth, then cringed when the room’s attention seemed to focus on him.

Harry used the distraction to sneak a glance at Hermione, sitting next to him, and winced. His girlfriend was fuming, but he could see she was fighting not to cry again. He wrapped an arm around her, and though she stiffened - she must agree with Sirius’s assessment of his and Ron’s course of action in that fight - she didn’t pull away.

“Viktor’s three years older, and was holding his own in the fight,” Sirius snarled.

“He was outnumbered and he needed our help!” Ron blurted out. “He didn’t even have an invisibility cloak!”

Sirius opened his mouth, apparently gearing up to cut Ron’s argument down, when Hermione spoke up: “He tried disillusioning himself, but it didn’t work.”

“Well, of course it didn’t work. They’d have put up Anti-Disillusion Jinxes,” Sirius commented.

“Those jinxes were supposed to work against cloaks as well. But Harry’s cloak wasn’t affected,” Ron said

Harry blinked. That was true - he hadn’t thought about it, back then, he had just been glad the cloak was working.

“That was his father’s cloak, right?” Hermione wasn’t as tense as before, Harry could feel that.

Sirius, nodded. “Yes. A family treasure, James called it.”

“Invisibility cloaks do not last that long. A few years at most.” Hermione was biting her lower lip, as she often did when pondering a mystery, Harry knew. And she wasn’t focusing on what he had done anymore.

“They must have had it re-enchanted regularly,” Sirius said. “Dumbledore had it after … he must have done it too. That explains why it’s so powerful too.”

Hermione nodded, but Harry frowned. Something didn’t add up. “Did he improve other cloaks too? They would grant a big advantage in combat.”

“Not to my knowledge…” Sirius trailed off. “The Order could use such cloaks. Of course, protecting you is very important, since Voldemort is so focused on you, so it makes sense to make sure your cloak is the best.” His godfather didn’t mention the prophecy, since not everyone present was aware of it. Though Harry was rather certain that sooner or later Sirius would inform his girlfriends.

“And yet the ability to remain invisible while others can’t is so useful, Dumbledore would have made more of those for the Order.” Hermione had picked up on Harry’s thoughts.

“Which means he can’t make more,” Ron added. “That means your cloak is special, Harry.”

Harry pulled the cloak out of his enchanted pocket and let it slide over his hand. It had always been special, being a tie to his father. But what if it was more than that?

“Maybe there’s something to it that other cloaks lack, which makes it easier to enchant… some family secret… some variant of a Demiguise that has died out since?” Hermione mumbled. Harry noticed that she was staring at the cloak with an almost hungry expression, and protectively stuffed it back into his pocket before his girlfriend could try to dissect the cloak in an attempt to understand its secrets.

“You can ask Dumbledore about it, he’ll tell you,” he quickly said when he noticed her expression darken.

“Yes. Now, let’s go back to your utter lack of common sense,” Sirius said, with a smile devoid of any humour.

“What else could we have done?” Harry asked. “We couldn’t flee with just one broom - the cloak wouldn’t cover us and the broom, and they would have spotted us and boxed us in. They had Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes up as well,” he said. “That’s pretty much standard for such attacks.”

“Yeah. One day everyone will be so used to that, they won’t have to cast the jinxes anymore since no one will even think of trying to apparate!” Ron chuckled, but stopped as soon as half the room glared at him again. Undaunted, he continued to supported Harry. “Attacking their leader from under the cloak was the best decision.” With a slight huff, he added: “And if we had gone for help, we’d have been too late for Viktor. He is good, but he can’t dodge genies with invisible walls that long.”

Sirius closed his eyes and sighed, then sank into an armchair he conjured right behind himself. “You may have a point there.”

Harry perked up and smiled at Ron, then had to wince when Hermione dug her nails into his thigh.

“Next time though, apparate away as soon as you can,” Sirius said. “That’s why we trained that.”

“And the law says that we need to be 17 to get an apparition license,” Hermione mentioned, shaking her head. Her tone and expression told Harry that his girlfriend didn’t care about that law. Not if ignoring it would make him safer. He felt the same with regards to her own safety.

“Yeah. Use it for emergencies, and if you get caught, claim it was accidental magic,” Sirius said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture.

Harry glanced at Hermione, then at Ron. ‘Emergencies’ would be a rather flexible term, he thought with a grin that his friends shared.

“I’ll act as if I don’t know what you three are thinking.” Sirius shook his head with a wry expression. Harry did his best to put up an innocent front.

*****

Bogdan Lyubenov Stoyanov stared at the two boxes that had been delivered to him by a brown post owl. Smaller than a cigar box - obviously expanded inside. He pointed his wand at them. All it would take to keep his honour was to get rid of them. He took a deep breath as his hand was trembling, his wand wavering. He just had to...

With a curse, he flung his wand away, sending it cluttering against the wall in his study. How could he think of saving his honour when that would doom his daughter? Clutching the locket hanging from his neck, he stared at the picture on his desk. It showed a blonde girl, waving at the camera with a bright smile showing a gap in her front teeth. Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova. His only daughter. Wiping away the tears that were running down his cheeks, he looked at the second picture, at the gently smiling witch. Maria Petrova Stoyanov. His wife. Killed the day their daughter had been taken. What would Maria want him to do? Would she sacrifice their daughter for their honour?

He scoffed. He knew the answer. His wife had died to protect little Nadya. Died in vain - the raiders had taken the girl anyway. He had been away, that terrible day, more than twenty years ago. He had been working in Sofia when the raiders had struck the house. When he had returned had seen the carnage; faithful Sergey struck down by a Killing Curse at the door, where he had faced the Ottomans; his wife in a pool of her blood, struck by a Cutting Curse on top of the stairs. She had been too strong for them to take, too skilled with her wand to capture. And so the dogs had killed her. And had taken Nadya. Her room had been empty. Tsveta, the maid back then, had been taken as well, he remembered. Easy prey for raiders, muggleborns.

His wife though… he had met her at Durmstrang. She had been a year below, but a fierce duelist. Better than him, he had to admit, when he had been her age. She would do, had done anything for their daughter. He leaned back in his seat, shivering. How could he betray her, and their daughter?

He looked at the box again. Lacquered wood, black and shiny. It looked almost ordinary, not even hinting at the danger it held. Like a gift, for a wedding. Or a favorite tea box. No one would suspect anything if he carried it with him. Until he opened it.

He clenched his jaw together, his hand still clutching his necklace, and glared at the parchment that had come with the box. The instructions. And the promises. His daughter’s freedom. Lies, Turkish lies, he told himself, not for the first time. They wouldn’t let his daughter go even if he did what they wanted. And yet… he wanted to believe them. Wanted it so badly.

His fingers opened the locket. Caressed the lock of blonde hair in it. It was his daughter’s. A spell had proven that. She was still alive - a polyjuice potion he had his maid, Silviya, take, had proven that. For a moment, it had been as if Nadya had returned to him, and he had broken down crying. She had grown up into a beautiful woman since her kidnapping, like her mother had been. Silviya had understood then. Had been happy for him, the poor trusting girl.

He had obliviated her, of course. Couldn’t risk her betraying that secret. Betraying his impending betrayal. But that had sealed it. Watching his daughter’s form waver, turn back into his maid’s had felt like losing her again. How could he go through that again? How could he sacrifice her? For strangers?

He wrapped the blonde strand of hair around his finger, ran it over his cheek. Nadya. He told himself that the Ottoman who had sent him the first letter, with the lock, wouldn’t keep his word. Would betray him. But the hope… whenever he touched the lock, Nadya’s hair, he knew he had to try, had to risk it, no matter how small the chance.

He couldn’t fail his daughter again.

Never again.

*****

Abdul al-Samar closed his ledger, a slight frown on his face. Procuring the poison needed for this task had been more expensive than he liked. Far more. Usually, he didn’t need much of it - just enough for one wizard or witch. It was a complicated poison, delivered in two parts, both of them harmless and therefore not detected by the usual spells until combined - in a body, or outside. He only knew one potioneer who knew how to brew both components, and the man charged a fortune for his services - and his secrecy.

If there had been another way to do the Dark Lord’s bidding, Abdul would not have spent so much gold. But that poison in gaseous form was the best option. Spreading a disease like Dragon Pox would be deadlier, and easier - but that would bring down the wrath of the ICW. The Sublime Porte would sacrifice him in a heartbeat if there was even a hint about the deliberate use of magical diseases. Not even Grindelwald had dared to do that. The last time a country had crossed that line, the consequences had been so severe, even the memory of the country had been erased from all but a few accounts.

The Ottoman wizard had thought of using Exploding Fluid, but that was too easily detected as well. An Assassin might be able to smuggle enough of the fluid past whatever guards and spells the Bulgarians and British had put up, but the Elder of the Mountain would never allow one of his wands to move against a protégé of Dumbledore. Anyone else Abdul knew would be caught. Or was smart enough not to go.

He leaned back, wondering how Doruk had fared. The pact with the genies he had sent along with the raider and his thugs had ended, which meant Doruk was dead. As expected. And planned. He shook his head, smiling slightly. To think that man had fancied himself his rival! The fool hadn’t even known Abdul was behind the mission, nor realised that even if he succeeded, he’d die - at the wand of Dumbledore, or killed by his employer to prevent Dumbledore from tracking him. All that talent for crossing borders, and no wisdom.

But Doruk’s failure would make the Bulgarian barbarians tighten their security even more - and call in experts for genies. And Stoyanov was their best. It was delightfully ironic that the very thing that had caused that wizard to become an expert for genies - or as much of an expert as someone outside the Empire could become - was also the thing that allowed Abdul to control him. The man’s daughter that had been kidnapped and raised in the Empire.

He frowned again. Procuring the witch had not been cheap either - she had been married to a wizard in Constantinople, and breaking into a harem wasn’t common, despite all the tales told in taverns and cafés. At least her husband wasn’t that influential, so there shouldn’t be much trouble on that front.

He flicked his wand and a steaming kettle floated over, dipping as it filled his cup. Stoyanov was both his best opportunity, and the weakest part of his plan. Holding his daughter hostage should be enough to make the Bulgarian obey, but using such means was always a bit of a gamble. Stoyanov seemed like a sure bet though - he had no family left that could be hurt, other than his daughter, no real career to care about, and would happily die for the girl. Or woman, now.

Still, using the imperius or laying some compulsion charms on that lock of hair Abdul had sent to the Bulgarian would have insured the man’s compliance, but either could be detected. Though if Abdul was honest with himself, then he liked that bit of risk, that bit of uncertainty in a plan. And he enjoyed the thought that even if Stoyanov didn’t die from the poison, his daughter would return to her husband instead.

After all, Abdul had only promised to set her free, not to send her to a father she didn’t remember anymore.

Just as the genies he made deals with, Abdul prided himself of adhering to the letter of his deals, not the spirit.

The cup of tea floated a bit away while his chuckling turned into a violent coughing fit. bent over, his lungs hurting, he pulled out a small vial with shaking fingers, swallowing its contents quickly. With closed eyes he waited until breathing didn’t hurt anymore. As usual, it took a bit longer to bring him relief than the last time he had taken it. One day, in the not too distant future, it would simply fail. And he would die.

Unless he gained the Dark Lord’s knowledge of how to cheat death. That was the real prize Abdul was after. The Dark Lord’s means of immortality. And that was worth all the gold he had spent so far, and then some.

*****

Since her last visit, playing the dutiful little muggleborn in Bulgaria had become harder, Hermione Granger thought while she checked her appearance in the mirror of Harry’s and her room. Or maybe she simply wasn’t used anymore to the degree of formality common here. It was different in Britain. Between the lessons at Hogwarts, where every student was treated the same, and the time Harry and she spent with close friends in their private room, where she could be herself, she only had to act as a retainer in the hallways and at the meals. Due to the war, they had few formal dinners with guests at home - at Harry’s home - and when they went out, they usually stayed in Muggle London, where they could act like a normal couple. The same had been the case for their trip to Jamaica.

In Bulgaria though, they were always in public as soon as they left their room. They were wearing robes that told everyone their blood status, and while everyone knew she was his girlfriend - his mistress, actually, in their terms - she wasn’t supposed to ‘flaunt’ it. That would be trying to ‘reach above her station’. At least she had not offended anyone when she had hugged Harry after the battle he had been in.

Sighing, she ran her wand over her robe, checking with the robe floating next to the mirror if her transfigured robe matched the Bulgarian robe provided by Viktor’s family. There was no way she was wearing anything but her heavily enchanted robe, so she had to transfigure it.

Her torc grew warmer, alerting her that Harry was approaching. A few seconds later, the door opened and her boyfriend entered. He was wearing his own robe, also transfigured - though since he was a pureblood, his looked far more elaborate and colorful.

“Homenum Revelio.” Hermione flicked her wand, but no one was revealed.

“Moody’s checking the perimeter, or so he said,” Harry explained.

“He could have told you that to fool anyone listening in, and followed you inside.” Hermione narrowed her eyes. She was not quite certain the old Auror hadn’t a way to fool her detection spells. At least the other Order members who had arrived from Britain with Moody, after Dumbledore had heard of the attack, were a bit less… eccentric.

“And then he’d assume whoever listened in would assume he was trying to fool them, and so he’d would still check the perimeter.” Harry grinned.

“At least he takes your security seriously.” Hermione frowned. She still wasn’t completely over the attack on him. If only she had been with him! She knew that would have meant she’d have been flying - she suppressed a shudder - or an easy target on the ground, but she should have been with him, ready to protect him.

“He’s paranoid. I think he has been disillusioning himself almost constantly since he arrived here.” Harry stepped up to her, cocking his head sideways. “That looks like a perfect copy.”

She sighed again. “It is. Not that it was that difficult to copy a plain muggleborn robe.” It wasn’t exactly that plain, quite the contrary. The embroidery was just more subtle, but by no means less extensive than the pureblood robe Harry wore.

“Well, all of them had to wear muggle clothes in Britain,” Harry said while putting his hands on her shoulder.

“I know, it’s only fair we wear their clothes for the wedding here.” Hermione knew it, knew how long it had taken for the two families to compromise, and yet…

“We could still wear our normal robes. Claim we need the additional protection.”

Hermione shook her head. “No. This is Nymphadora’s and Viktor’s great day. We shouldn’t ruin it.” Their excuse would be accepted, but everyone would know it was a lie.

“At least it’ll be interesting, to see a Bulgarian wedding. Note all the differences…” he trailed off, pressing his lips together.

She smiled, though a bit ruefully, at him. “I can stand it. Don’t worry.” And if she couldn’t… Witches could cry at weddings.

Harry nodded, then cupped her chin and lifted it towards him. “We’ll have our own, after the war.”

“Yes.” She knew that, though she didn’t know what kind of wedding they’d have. Would be able to have. Then their lips met and she closed her eyes, trying to forget such thoughts.

*****

Bogdan Lyubenov Stoyanov stared at the Krum family gathered in front of their home. Viktor Krum was shaking barley out of his hair - he couldn’t use a wand for that, that would bring bad luck - while the rest of his family shot spells into the air. The best man, Boris Stankoiev, floated the wedding banner, a tapestry which showed the life of the groom and his family’s history in short scenes. Bogdan smiled, remembering his own wedding banner. Contrary to Krum’s, his had focused on his family history - he had been so young then, he hadn’t had much to be proud of. Maria had chosen him anyway, over two rivals from Sofia.

While the wedding procession, led by the banner, left Krum’s home and his parents and made its way to the tent that would serve as the bride’s home for the ceremony, Bogdan saw his own procession, walking towards Maria’s home.

“Stoyanov?”

He jerked. Who… It was Ivan Dimitariev, the head of the forces safeguarding the village and wedding. The Bulgarian forces, to be precise - the British had sent Aurors of their own, and most he had talked with assumed half the guests were guards in disguise as well. “I’m sorry, I just… I remembered my own wedding.”

Ivan nodded, sympathy apparent on his face. Everyone knew what had happened to Bogdan’s family, after all. “Weddings do that.” After a pause, he asked: “Any sign of genies?”

Bogdan shook his head. “None so far. But if they arrive, I’m ready.” He patted his robe’s pocket and forced a smile. Ivan smiled in return, slapped him on the back, and went to check on the broom patrols.

As soon as the other man had turned away he stopped smiling. If Ivan knew what he was about to do… He shook his head, banishing the thoughts. Nadya. He had to think of Nadya.

*****

Viktor beamed while his bride was led out of the tent, a veil on her head - as tradition demanded, she had refused it twice, before accepting it on the third time - and a long scarf floating around her. The scarf depicted her and her family’s history, but where his banner was thick and solid, the scarf was sheer, and thin, dancing around Nymphadora as if it was carried by fairies.

Boris, his best friend and best man, had the wedding banner dip with a flick of his wand - the signal for Viktor to capture the scarf. As one of the world’s best seekers, Viktor could have caught it in seconds, but tradition demanded he make a spectacle out of it, chasing it around the bride with exaggerated motions, almost running the bride over and generally playing the fool. According to tradition this symbolized the courtship, where the wizard chased the witch. His father claimed it showed the typical wizard making a fool out of himself over a witch. Mother had hexed him for the comment.

After enough time had passed, Viktor caught the scarf, wrapping it around his wand arm while both families present cast spells into the sky again to ward off evil spirits. Viktor noted that this time, people seemed to take this far more seriously than usual - they were not casting the usual flashy jinxes, but deadly hexes and curses. Viktor approved of this - twice his home had been attacked, and twice he had been taken by surprise. There would not be a third time!

When the spirits had been chased off, he offered his left arm to his bride - she had a tendency to stumble, and that wouldn’t do today - and started leading her towards the village temple, followed by their friends and family.

*****

Bogdan Lyubenov Stoyanov remembered his instructions while he followed the wedding procession towards the temple. All he had to do was open one box during the ceremony, take out a handkerchief, then wait until the ceremony was almost over and open the other box. Simple. Easy. He could do it. He had to, for Nadya.

Halfway to the temple, the music started, and he almost stumbled. The same song as… He shivered, wiping his eyes. Maria…

“Are you sad?”

Once again he jerked, surprised. Looking around, he saw a little girl staring up at him. She was wearing muggleborn robes and couldn’t be older than six. The same age his own daughter had been.

The girl tugged on one of her pigtails and cocked her head to the side. “Are you sad? You’re crying. Mother said witches cry at weddings because they are happy, but wizards don’t cry if they’re happy.”

He didn’t know what to say to the child. Shaking his head, he tried to smile at her. “I’m not sad.”

She rewarded his lie with a beaming smile of her own. “Good! It’s the biggest wedding of the village! Everyone should be happy!” Before she could say anything else, a woman shouted from further ahead: “Dana!”

“Ooops!” Grinning, she turned around and started to run towards the witch who had shouted - one of the muggleborn families bringing up the end of the wedding procession.

Bogdan watched the girl run, reach her family, and get picked up by her mother, or older sister. He didn’t know what the boxes would do. Not exactly. But he could imagine it. And he suddenly knew that Maria wouldn’t have done that, not even for Nadya.

When his eyes filled with tears again, he didn’t wipe them off but simply started to walk away, towards the edge of the village.

*****

When the priest was asking Tengri the Sky Father for his blessing of the marriage, Viktor felt his skin tingling and for a moment, he heard and felt the wing beats of a bird flying over his head. Nymphadora was looking at the open ceiling, seemingly startled - she had to have felt it too. “Tengri’s blessing,” he whispered, and saw her take a deep breath, and steady herself again. Together, they faced the priest, who was smiling widely under his thick beard.

“Raise your wands, and speak after me: I, Viktor Mihailiev, take Nymphadora Black-Tonks...”

Viktor raised his wand, and as he started to speak the words of the vow, he saw a golden eagle glide over the temple, then fly towards the sun and disappear. Was this…?

He was still wondering what he had seen when he was signing the marriage parchments, and so distracted, he was easily bested by Nymphadora in the ritual duel afterwards that tradition claimed would show who would hold the wand in the marriage.

He didn’t mind though - it was still the happiest day of his life.

*****

Bogdan Lyubenov Stoyanov stared at the small clearing in the woods. The wedding would be over by now. The temple emptying as the families and friends of the couple moved to the feast. It was over.

No… he still could do it. Just at the feast. It was in the open, but that… he clenched his eyes shut and hit the tree he was standing next to so hard, all his knuckles were split. No. He couldn’t. Maria would never forgive him. And neither would Nadya. The price was just too high.

But he had to ensure Nadya wouldn’t suffer for his decision. No more than she already was. And only his death would achieve that. With him dead, there would be no point to punish her. But first, he had to destroy the boxes.

He pulled them from his pockets and set them down on a stone in the middle of the clearing. Fiendfyre would endanger the entire forest, so he could only hope that vanishing it would work.

Taking a few steps back, he drew his wand and aimed it at the two boxes.

“Wait, please.”

For the third time this day, he jerked in surprise.

*****

The Bulgarian wizard reacted like Aberforth Dumbledore had expected, whirling around and aiming his wand, then wavering when he couldn’t spot the old British wizard. He almost chuckled - throwing his voice might seem like a party trick, and yet so effective when used in the right situation.

A series of disarming spells, cast too fast for the man to react in time, removed Stoyanov’s wand. Shocked, the man fell to his knees. That wasn’t the expression of a man doing his duty, but a beaten man. It looked like Moody had been correct, Aberforth thought with no small amount of resentment.

Canceling his Disillusionment Charm, he saw Stoyanov’s eyes widen.

“D-Dumbledore…”

“Indeed, though not the Dumbledore you’re thinking about,” Aberforth said, a bit prickly. He didn’t dress like a colorblind child after eating a whole box of chocolate frogs, after all. “So… where did you get those boxes?”

The man hesitated for an instant, then seemed to shrink, his shoulders hunching. “They were sent to me… with a lock of hair from my daughter. She was kidnapped… years ago.”

Aberforth stiffened and had to clench his jaws together to avoid cursing out loud. Damn that bastard of an Auror! He had to have known this all along, and yet sent him to confront the man! He took a deep breath and managed to hold his temper. “And so they offered her life for the life of the Boy-Who-Lived?”

“Yes, no… I don’t know. I was to open those boxes, in the temple.” The man was crying now. “Nadya… I couldn’t do it.”

“Who sent the boxes?” Aberforth looked at them. Plain, but that didn’t mean anything. They could contain anything, from bound genies to molten lava. He should let Moody handle them. Give the bastard a taste of his own medicine. To think that Albus sent both of them to Bulgaria… and to think Aberforth had been fool enough to agree!

“I don’t know. I never saw the man. It’s an Ottoman wizard, that’s all I know.” Stoyanov sobbed.

Aberforth shook his head. “You assume that. You don’t know.” Though it was a good guess. Genies, kidnapped girls… it fit.

“Please… save her. She’s innocent…”

He hissed, remembering the last time he had gone into the Ottoman Empire to save two kidnapped girls. Only Lea had survived that attempt, Neola had died. His damn fault. And Albus’s, for not helping. “What’s her name?” he asked, knowing he shouldn’t.

“Nadya. Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova.” The man’s expression was filled with so much desperate hope, it almost hurt just seeing it.

“I will do what I can.” Aberforth regretted the words as soon as he said them, but knew he couldn’t say anything else.

“Thank you. Thank you.” The man relaxed, growing calmer. “But you’ll need to find her, her kidnapper, first.”

“Yes.” And without a name, that would be difficult. Not impossible, but difficult.

Stoyanov nodded slowly. “I’ll have to make sure they’ll not punish her then.”

“Don’t be a fool!”

“I am a fool.” The Bulgarian snorted. “If I betrayed them, then they’ll hurt her to punish me. If I am killed trying to do their bidding though they have no reason to.”

“If they think you betrayed them, they have a reason to keep her as leverage.” Aberforth knew it was a weak argument, but they were talking about a man’s, a father’s life here.

Stoyanov shook his head. “If you give me my wand, I’ll give you my memories. All I know about the kidnappers. And… for Nadya. To give to her, once she is safe. And a lock of her hair, so you will know how she looks.”

“There’s no need for that. They won’t kill her.” Aberforth didn’t think so.

“Maybe. But if they start hurting her… I don’t know if I could resist then.”

There was nothing Aberforth could say against that. So he handed the man’s wand over. “I’ll say you looked like you were under a spell.” It would make it easier for his family. Or for his daughter.

“Thank you.”

Aberforth watched as silvery strands of memories were drawn out of Stoyanov’s temple, ending up in a few vials. And he stood and watched as the Bulgarian wizard sent a Piercing Curse through the same temple.

Then he carefully stored the two boxes in two different bags, sealed them up, took the locket with the girl’s hair and sent a Patronus Messenger to Moody before apparating away.

*****

“Was he a traitor?”

Aberforth Dumbledore glared at Moody without answering his question. “Did you know about his daughter?”

“Of course. Checking for such weaknesses is standard procedure.” The old Auror grinned.

Aberforth felt like hexing the man. Or hitting him. But if he attacked, things would end with blood and death. The history between him and Moody guaranteed that. And the man’s paranoia. But he couldn’t leave this unanswered. So he leaned forward and whispered: “If you ever pull this again, I’ll make sure you’ll regret it.”

Moody sneered at him in response. “We’ll see who’ll regret it.” After a short pause, he continued. “So, what did you do to him?”

“I spoke to him. Before he killed himself,” Aberforth answered.

“What? We needed his knowledge!” Moody gaped at him.

“I’ve got his memories.” Aberforth smiled toothily at his old enemy.

“I’ll get them to Albus.”

“No, I’ll do it.”

Moody’s eyebrow rose - the one above his normal eye. “Will you be going off on a fool’s quest again while we fight the Dark Lord?”

Aberforth glared at him. “Two attacks on Potter with the help of an Ottoman wizard. Three if you count the genie at the end of the tournament. Someone has to take care of that problem.”

“You want to save the girl.”

Aberforth ignored the comment. “Can you handle the rest of the time Potter’s staying here?”

As expected, Moody was torn between his paranoia, and his desire to not rely on Aberforth. His pride won out. “I can handle it. Go and run to your brother and ask him for help. But don’t get anyone killed this time. Unless they are criminals.”

Aberforth apparated away before he lost his temper.

*****

“Home sweet home!” Sirius Black exclaimed when he exited the Floo connection in No. 12, Grimmauld Place and stepped over his godson, who was lying on the floor. “I thought we fixed your problem with Floo travel. Did you have a relapse?”

“Someone tripped me,” Harry grumbled, getting up.

“It was probably Moody, still invisible,” Hermione said, grinning. “Constant vigilance, right?” she added, raising her voice just shy of yelling.

“I suspect it was some clumsy witch.”

“Well, you would, but you would be wrong.”

Sirius smiled while he watched the two teenagers head up to their room. His godson was safe; he could finally relax again. Two attacks in Bulgaria… part of him wanted to keep Harry in Grimmauld Place until Voldemort was dead. It would be easy… stock up on food, bribe Hermione with books until she supported the idea, hire some tutors…

He sighed. James too had thought they would be safe while hiding. He had been wrong. And Harry wasn’t the type to hide. As much as Sirius hated it, he was too much of a Gryffindor. Too brave, too ready to jump into the fray to protect others. Well, if he could make Harry believe that Hermione would be safest here…

He sighed and shook his head. It wouldn’t work.

“Trouble, chéri?” Valérie was there, running a hand over his back. Behind her Chantal arrived, Eugénie and Laure right behind.

“Just wishing Harry wouldn’t have to go to Hogwarts in a month.”

“Will they be taking the train again?”

“Yes. It has been repaired, and they’ll have doubled the guards. And broom riding escorts for the whole trip.” It had been quite the discussion in the Wizengamot, but an alliance of traditionalists who’d rather risk their great-grandchildren than deprive them of the train trip, and hotheads who would not let Voldemort force them into abandoning such a symbol of Wizarding Britain had prevailed over more cautious members.

“You think Voldemort will use the opportunity to strike at someone else,” Chantal stated rather than asked.

“Exactly.” At least Harry would be safe. As safe as a boy could be when the worst Dark Lord in British history wanted him dead. “And we’ll be too late again. We can’t win by defending. We need to find them and strike at them.”

“Finding is the main problem.” Laure stretched, changing her robes to a lighter, sheerer and much shorter house robe. Or what Veela considered house robes. Her cousins followed her example.

“Dumbledore says he’s working on that problem, but he won’t say how long it’ll be until he has a solution.” Sirius frowned. The Headmaster wouldn’t even give him an estimate.

“Maybe ‘ermione can ask ‘im? She’s visiting Hogwarts soon, right?”

Sirius almost glared at Valérie. Officially, Harry and Hermione were visiting Hogwarts for some lessons from Dumbledore. No one was supposed to know that it was a cover for whatever the witch was doing with Dumbledore. Sirius didn’t know it himself. He just hoped it would be as effective as whatever Lily had been working on - that had saved Harry and defeated the Dark Lord. To cover his near-lapse, he chuckled. “I fear that the Headmaster is not susceptible to a pretty face.”

“It’d be worth a try,” Valérie said, giggling, though judging by the slightly forced undertone, and the looks from her cousins, they hadn’t been fooled.

Well, the four Veela had proven themselves time and again. And they were as good as family. Maybe it was time for a talk.

*****

Dolores Umbridge waved her wand, and the flagon of perfume circled around her, two drops floating up from it and flying towards her. She checked her appearance. The robe fit perfectly, framing her body and drawing attention to her figure without showing too much. Their target for this night was not interested in bedding women, but he liked the company of educated witches anyway.

She entered the main room, where the two beasts were waiting. She looked them over, then nodded. No one would suspect their true nature dressed in those robes. The female werewolf sneered at her. She still hadn’t accepted her place. The male one leered and made an obscene proposition. That beast reveled in his nature. She ignored it and drew her wand. “Let’s be off. Ethan Hathaway does not like to be kept waiting.”

Two hours later, Dolores was cursing her luck, or lack of. The moon would rise soon, but Hathaway hadn’t shown any inclination to retire to his bedroom with the male beast yet. And she had hoped to avoid seeing the monster transform. Or being nearby. Even with wolfsbane, she didn’t trust the werewolf - he was driven by his base instincts far too much even in human form. Not that she trusted the female one much either, but at least this one had shown some restraint in the past.

“Dear, feel free to get comfortable with your friend.” Hathaway gestured at her and the female werewolf. His hints were becoming less and less subtle with each glass he drank. The male monster laughed loudly, of course. He had claimed they were an item ever since both had refused his advances.

“Oh, we are very comfortable here,” Dolores spoke up, to cover for the growl coming from the monster near her. She felt a bit vexed that the werewolf seemed to be as disgusted as herself by the proposal - the beast should feel honoured by the assumption, no matter how disgusting it was - but focused on the mission. Any time now.

*****

Albus Dumbledore withdrew his head from his pensieve. He had been watching the memories Aberforth had brought to him for the sixth time, and yet he had not made much progress. The only - vague - clues to the identity of that Ottoman wizard were the boxes and the owl that had delivered them - a plain brown post owl. Almost impossible to trace. Probably killed already. And the boxes showed no hint of their origin either - those kind of boxes could be bought almost anywhere. He could only hope that his brother would have more luck in the Empire. A lot more than during his last foray to the Bosporus.

He had found other clues though. He would have to talk to Alastor. Using compulsion charms on a little girl… he shook his head. His old friend was going a bit far. And that stunt he had pulled on Aberforth… Albus had hoped his brother and Alastor would make up, or at least, bury their feud in the face of a common enemy, but it seemed they were a bit too set in their ways. More than a bit, with Aberforth determined to save the man’s daughter. He could only hope his brother would not repeat his past mistakes.

The charm on his Floo connection alerted him, and he drew his wand as he walked to his office. His fireplace was warded, and he did expect Harry and Miss Granger, but in these trying times it was best to be prepared.

He reached his office before the two teenagers arrived. With his entire flat technically located inside his office, distances were easily adjusted to a single step when needed. Or to a hundred.

“Good evening, Harry, Miss Granger. Please have a seat.”

He checked the small clock on his desk. “We have an hour until the moon rises.”

Harry nodded, more than a bit stiffly. Understandable - the poor boy would, in all likelihood, have to share Voldemort’s mind again during a terrible ritual this night. Miss Granger rubbed his back and he managed a smile. “Some birthday present.”

Albus chuckled, even if he didn’t feel it was funny. But the boy was making an effort to lighten the mood, which deserved his support. He met the glaring eyes of the young muggleborn witch, and held her gaze until she looked away. She meant well, but she was still inexperienced, and a bit too eager where more caution would be preferable. Fawkes sang, lifting the spirits of everyone present, and Albus slipped the phoenix a few lemon drops in gratitude,

“Headmaster? I was wondering…”

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“Could a Dementor suck a soul out of a Horcrux?”

He raised his eyebrows at the calm tone the young witch used when talking about some of the foulest creatures known to man. He wasn’t surprised though - he had known she would look into those matters when researching magic that affected souls.

Folding his hands, Albus leaned back. “While it would seem logical, I fear it would not work. A Dementor’s power only works on living, feeling people.”

“But…”

He raised a hand before the witch could continue. “Without access to the body, they wouldn’t be able to reach the soul. It was put to the test, so to speak, on Azkaban.” Bones had put a stop to it quickly, but not before a few Death Eaters had already been ‘kissed by accident’. And Tom wouldn’t have chosen the Dark Mark as his horcruxes if a single one of his followers getting kissed would have led to his own demise.

“Oh. Would it work if his current body was captured?”

“It might, or it might not. If it is possible to protect oneself against the Dementor’s kiss, then Tom will have done so - he would have known he would be facing this punishment, should he get caught, before he started his first war.” He sighed. “Not that it would be too practical anyway, with the Dementors now serving him.”

The young witch looked down, and this time it was up to Harry to console her. “Even if we can just find them through the mark it’ll be enough to win the war.”

Albus knew that was true. But it wouldn't be enough to save Harry, should his mother's protection ever fail. The things Voldemort could do, using the connection in his scar... And judging from the look on Miss Granger's face when she stared at him, she knew it as well.

He would have to let her read some of the books he hadn’t touched since he and Gellert had parted ways. The three people remained silent for a bit, listening to another of Fawkes’s songs.

“I’ve another question, sir.” The witch broke the silence.

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you study sympathetic magic?”

“Ah. To be honest, it would have done me more harm than good.” He chuckled at their alarmed expressions. “No, no. Not the kind of harm you are thinking of. Sympathetic magic is not dark.” Though a few of the curses often used with it were among the darkest magic known to wizardkind. “But for me to be seen studying what most consider voodoo would have damaged my reputation. My political opponents would have jumped on the opportunity, and my enemies would have rejoiced at the ability to blame me for any suspicious death no matter if I was nearby or not.”

“So now they will blame me, us?” Harry asked.

“I do not think anyone outside your family knows about your training on Jamaica,” he tried to reassure the two teenagers. Harry seemed to accept that, but Miss Granger frowned. She didn’t push the point though.

“Yes Miss Granger?” He had seen her hand twitch. She didn’t raise it to ask a question, not anymore, but sometimes, old habits lingered.

“Did you do something to Harry’s invisibility cloak? We noticed that it worked even against Anti-Disillusionment Jinxes. That’s not normal.”

“Ah.” He took a lemon drop to gain some time to study the young witch and wizard. They seemed curious, not suspicious. “The cloak is more powerful than normal cloaks - which is why it has been in your family for so long, Harry.”

“Can it be duplicated?” Harry leaned forward. “If all of the Order had such cloaks, the war would be much easier.”

Albus smiled. Others would have been happy to own something special, Harry though was concerned with helping others. He shook his head. “Sadly, the secret of its construction was lost. I’ve studied it for years.”

“Oh.” The two teens looked disappointed, though Miss Granger also looked intrigued. Albus had a feeling that she’d look into the matter herself, though hopefully only after Voldemort had been defeated, and then it wouldn’t matter that much anymore. But if Voldemort learned that the myth was real...

He checked the clock again. It wouldn’t be long now until the moon rose.

*****

When two inhuman screams filled the room and both werewolves started to shake, Dolores moved at once. Hathaway was still staring, frozen with shock and horror as he realised that he was in the same room as two werewolves, when her first spell struck his robe’s protection. A robe he wouldn’t have been wearing if the male werewolf had done his job.

The wizard was rich, and his robe’s enchantments showed it. Dolores’s first four spells were countered by them. Her fifth Full Body-Bind Curse though hit before Hathaway could cast himself, and he froze as his limbs snapped stiff.

She turned to the male beast, who had just finished transforming - an ugly, violent process that sounded as if all of the bones in the human body were broken before changing. “Bite him! I’ll check if the way to his bedroom is clear.”

Instead of obeying, the monster took a step towards her, his long tongue lolling out of his slobbering mouth. Dolores had taken two steps back before she realised it. “Bite him, then wait at his side!”

The beast took another step, almost a jump. Her wand was already aimed at it. “Don’t come closer!”

The monster’s mouth opened, and she couldn’t help but staring at the row of gleaming white oversized teeth. Which meant she didn’t see the beast kick a chair at her.

She hadn’t been too bad in DADA, and she managed to blow the chair up with a Reductor Curse before it hit her, but that had given the werewolf enough time to jump at her. To her horror, Dolores realised that she wouldn’t be able to stop the monster before it reached her. Before it bit her, cursing her, and turning her into a monster herself. Or do even worse.

She started to scream when another furry body plowed into the jumping werewolf from the side, pushing it away from the witch who was scrambling back in near-panic. The female werewolf… had saved her?

Dolores stared, shocked, while the two monsters fought. She couldn’t tell who was winning. Couldn’t cast without hitting them both - which wouldn’t be a bad thing, she realised. And yet she didn’t cast, but waited while blood and fur flew, and growls turned into howls and then into whimpers, until one beast was on the ground, missing its throat, and the other, bleeding, but still standing, turned towards her.

Again Dolores almost cast, but stayed her wand. That was the female one. It grunted, then limped over to the still bound Hathaway, bending down to bite him in the arm.

Slowly, the witch lowered her wand. She was safe. Sort of. The werewolf who had attacked her was dead. She was not hurt. Not cursed. She started to smile.

Then she stopped. She had been saved. By a werewolf. Who had risked her life for her.

No. No. “NOOOOO!”

If not for the privacy charms her scream would have been heard in the whole house.

*****


	47. End of Summer

**Chapter 47: End of Summer**

_By now he was very familiar with the sight. The beast was struggling, frothing through the gagged mouth, eyes rolling. The enchanted chains dug deep into its fur, burning its cursed skin and flesh. A Silencing Charm kept the howling from disturbing him._

_He was alone with the beast. His Bellatrix was far away, ready to complete the distraction he had arranged. He looked up - the full moon had risen, but clouds had so far blocked its light. The beast had transformed, of course; the curse didn’t require the actual moonlight to trigger, and neither did the ritual, but the symbolism of the circle and altar actually illuminated by the moon would make it stronger._

_And given what he was attempting, even that much help was welcome._

_Finally, the clouds parted, and the runic circle was bathed in the silvery light. Smiling, he started the ritual, igniting the floating lights. Unlike in the disastrous second attempt, the bands of runes he had seen in the first such ritual appeared again between them, though different ones this time. They spread, and wrapped around the floating crystal globe._

_It was time. He stepped over to the bound sacrifice, silver knife already drawn. The enchanted blade cut deeply, parting ribs almost as easily as it parted flesh, and soon he was staring at the exposed, beating heart of the monster. Instead of removing the heart though, he stabbed his wand into it with a whispered incantation._

_“Abunda!”_

_When he withdrew the wand, a thin stream of blood followed the tip. The monster’s heart blood. He stepped around the altar, ignoring the frantic beast, and touched the wand to the floating globe. The blood touched the crystal, and vanished into it with a sizzling noise. Smiling, he watched the beast weaken as more and more of its blood was fed into the globe, which started to shine brightly, the light rapidly growing in intensity._

_Long before the beast died though he pulled the wand away again, touching the ground, and let the blood spill over the earth. While the werewolf bled out, he studied the floating globe’s enchantments. If they started to weaken he’d have to act very quickly._

_They didn’t. They strained though. And when the monster died, they flared up, and he had to hasten to touch it with his wand, and send a cone of bright, blinding light up to the sky._

*****

Harry woke up shuddering. When he hadn’t slipped into a vision at moonrise, he had hoped that Voldemort’s close brush with death had scared the Dark Lord off from another attempt at the ritual. It hadn’t been the case. Before he could summon his glasses, Hermione handed them to him. Putting them on, he realised he had been transported to his - and now their - bedroom in No. 12, Grimmauld Place. After a glance to the clock hanging from the wall, ignoring the way the figures on the enamel dial seemed to peer at him with open curiosity, he muttered: “What a way to start my birthday.”

His girlfriend shook her head, but his joke seemed to have reassured her that he was, if not fine - she never used that word after his first Quidditch accident and subsequent stay in the under Pomfrey’s care - at least not hurt.

“Same as before?”

“He didn’t almost die,” he answered.

“He’s making progress again then.” Hermione shook her head, pursing her lips.

“He was more careful though,” Harry explained while drawing the memory out of his head and into a vial Hermione summoned. “That means he would take longer.”

He didn’t have to add ‘long enough for you to finish your own ritual’ - she knew what he meant and nodded.

“Dumbledore’s waiting for this. Downstairs,” the young witch said, then bent forward and kissed him.

When they pulled apart, Harry was tempted to banish the vial downstairs and lock himself in with Hermione. He didn’t though - this was too important. Lives depended on his visions. “Later,” he whispered in her ear, then got up.

*****

A monster had saved her. Had gotten hurt for her. It didn’t make any sense. Couldn’t make any sense.

Dolores Umbridge stared at the bleeding, misshapen form of the werewolf in shock. She felt the urge to help the beast, treat her - its! - wounds, and her wand was aimed at it before she realised. It growled, and she lowered her wand, fighting the urge to make cooing noises and explain herself.

Instead she addressed the still paralysed form of Hathaway. The man’s eyes were wide with fear, and darting back and forth between her and the werewolf. He too was bleeding, though just from one bite. She pointed her wand at the wound. “Episkey.”

While the wounds closed she vanished the blood that had been spilled, followed by the corpse of the werewolf. The other monster was trying to bandage her, its wounds as if it was a muggle. Rolling her eyes, Dolores stepped closer.

“Stop it! I need to vanish all traces of the fight, and for that, I can’t have you bleed on the carpet!” She sneered at the beast as it snarled at her. After a few seconds, she once again aimed her wand and started to close the numerous wounds the werewolf had suffered defending her. It growled some more, but didn’t attack or move away while she cast.

Finishing up, Dolores muttered curses when she realised that she had left herself open to an attack by the monster. And that she hadn’t minded as long as she could help the beast.

Shaking her head as if to physically banish the thoughts from her head, she repaired the furniture broken in the scuffle, and approached Hathaway again. “My dear Ethan. By now you’ll have realised what has happened: You’ve been bitten by a werewolf under the full moon.”

The wizard’s eyes managed to convey the horror he must be feeling, and she smiled sweetly at the sight. Served the arrogant idiot well. “If anyone learns of this, you’ll be finished. A monster, removed from your position, driven from your family. But don’t worry. As long as you do us a few favours, your secret will be safe.” She patted his cheek while the werewolf growled again.

“Now let’s disillusion the werewolf, and move to your bedroom. The monster needs to rest until the sun has risen again, when we can leave without trouble.”

*****

“What do you make of that?” Kenneth Fenbrick asked while prodding a marble splinter with his wand.

“Ritual gone out of control,” Bertha Limmington answered curtly. Kenneth’s partner was investigating what looked like a scrap of fur to him, until she turned it around and he could see the bleeding skin and flesh on the other side.

“What do you have there? Remains of an animal?”

“Werewolf.”

“A werewolf? Caster or sacrifice?” Kenneth looked around on the small clearing again. It wasn’t as devastated as the last clearing they had investigated. Or rather, he corrected himself, the devastation seemed to have been caused by a different effect, not simply a weaker version of whatever had caused the last incident.

“Sacrifice.” Bertha flicked her wand and a broken chain link floated over to Kenneth.

He studied it briefly. “Silver inlays.” That would hint at the werewolf having been chained up. Especially with the timing, right under the full moon. “So, that means the bits and pieces we found at the edge would have been the caster.” Bertha opened her mouth, but he knew what she’d say and continued, grinning at her expression: “Unless they belong to another sacrifice, or were a bystander.”

Glaring at him for an instant, Bertha nodded. “We haven’t found a wand.”

And Kenneth doubted they ever would. Anything that could reduce a block of marble to rubble would destroy a wand. “Maybe there’s a splinter from it in a part the trainees collected.” Ollivander might be able to identify it - the wandmaker had an uncanny memory for his work. Unless this was the work of a foreigner. “Though if the caster escaped the last disaster, he might have escaped this one as well.”

“If a ritual goes out of control, then the consequences are unpredictable.” Bertha looked at another, bigger piece of werewolf, levitating it in front of her and slowly turning it around itself while she cast several detection spells at it. “No spell residue.”

“Looks like a divination case then,” Kenneth remarked. Officially, there was no such term for investigations one needed a seer’s vision to solve, just cases that were ‘put on hold until further information was acquired’, but every Auror knew the score. And there were precious few visions to be had, with so few true seers being born.

“We still have to wait for the results from the Unspeakables,” Bertha objected. “It’s too early to say that.”

Kenneth could see she wasn’t really believing her own words though. He shrugged. “Nothing we can do then but wait.”

“But work on our other case,” Bertha corrected him. Her glare turned into a grin when Kenneth pouted theatrically, and both were smiling when they apparated back to the Ministry.

*****

Harry Potter watched his friends gather around the long table in the dining room of No. 12, Grimmauld Place. He could see the enormous birthday cake in the middle, slowly turning around itself, layers upon layers of chocolate and vanilla cake and enough sugar frosting to drive Hermione’s parents, were they there, into a berserker rage. The faeries flitting around the room - wearing tiny witch and wizard robes and chasing Aicha’s genie - certainly acted as if they had already eaten too much. Candles burning in all colours of the spectrum topped the cake - illusions, Harry knew. Real candles and Sirius didn’t mix well, or so Remus had claimed before Harry’s first birthday celebration at Grimmauld Place. Something about blowing out candles with magic, and blowing the cake away at the same time, all over his mother. It was one of the stories Sirius didn’t want to share.

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” Dudley started the song, and Harry’s friends joined in. That they didn’t know the melody didn’t deter any of them from singing as loudly as they could, and Harry exchanged amused glances with his cousin and Hermione.

Dodging a particularly hyper faerie that was careening around wildly in the room, Harry approached the table, Hermione at his side.

“Usually the cake is carried to the celebrant, not the other way around,” his girlfriend muttered.

Harry smiled - she still hadn’t forgiven Sirius’s declaration, three years ago, that that he knew best how to combine muggle and wizard custom to celebrate Harry’s birthday. His godfather hadn’t budged an inch, and now was claiming they had created a new tradition.

When the song had finally ended, Harry flicked his wand and dispelled the candles. Sirius quickly started to cut it up and float the slices to their guests. Luna offered crumbs of her slice to the faeries at once, and was soon surrounded by a dozen of the little creatures gorging themselves on cake, and trying to braid her hair.

Ron, his cake floating behind him on a silver plate, stepped up to Harry. “Hey! Good cake! Who made it?”

“Eugénie, though it’s a recipe from Aunt Petunia,” Harry answered. His aunt never quite added that much frosting though.

Ron nodded. “Think I can get it for mum?”

“Are you still grounded?” Hermione asked.

Their friend spread his hands with a rueful grin. “If only my O.W.L. results had arrived after the fight…” In a lower voice he added: “Did you sleep well?”

“As usual,” Harry answered. Hermione grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

Ron nodded, a serious expression on his face. They all knew what he had been asking about. “Well… opening your gifts now?” The redhead pointed to the side table, where a variety of boxes in shimmering colors awaited, some of them changing their forms every few seconds - a new product by Fred and George, apparently.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I think I’d rather have Hermione check them for spells first.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Not even Sirius would prank you today.”

“He did it last year.” And the year before.

“You hadn’t just been through such a violent experience back then,” Hermione insisted. He stared at her, and she sighed. “Fine. I’ll check them.”

While the witch started to run detection spells over the various packages, Harry smiled. He didn’t actually mind getting pranked. Quite the contrary - with Voldemort conducting those rituals and the recent attack in Bulgaria, a normal birthday would be nice. Glancing over at Luna, whose hair now looked like Disney had crossed a Medusa with Rapunzel, he added ‘relatively normal’. The blonde seemed to enjoy her new appearance though - she was smiling widely while she looked at her reflections in three mirrors surrounding her.

“Think she’ll try to get Hermione to let the faeries at her hair?” Ron asked, leaning a bit closer to Harry.

“Probably,” he answered. The blonde Ravenclaw had a gift for ‘loosening up’ Hermione, as Ron called it. The muggleborn witch in question was still checking Harry’s presents. “Padma is still in India, she couldn’t make it.”

Ron took a sip from his Snapple - Harry didn’t know where in Britain Sirius had managed to buy that brand and didn’t want to ask - and made a grunting noise. When he Harry looked at him and raised his eyebrows, his friend elaborated. “I’m not certain she’d have come even if she was in Britain. Her letters have been a bit… distant.”

“Oh.” Harry didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound stupid.

“Yeah. We haven’t officially broken up, but… it’s not the same anymore, you know? Hasn’t been for a while.”

“Oh.”

“But, hey - we’re starting the Year of Exploration! Plenty of birds to meet that way!” Ron’s grin looked a bit forced to Harry, but he didn’t comment.

Instead he nodded in agreement.

“Have you two talked about it?” Ron asked, nodding his head towards Hermione, who was trying to fend off Luna and her swarm of hairdressing faeries, to the great amusement of everyone else present.

“Sixth year? Yeah.” He wouldn’t go into details, of course.

“Ah.”

They didn’t talk much for a bit, while Hermione’s hairstyle was ruined. The girl didn’t seem to mind that too much though. Her reaction a few minutes later though, when the wrapping of Sirius’s present for Harry suddenly engulfed her and turned into a giant cake, from which she emerged wearing a bunny outfit… no wonder Padfoot had already started running before the cake had fully formed.

All in all it was a perfectly normal birthday party at Grimmauld Place. Just what Harry wanted.

*****

Paige Caldwell glared at the witch she was sharing her flat with. Dolores Umbridge, bigoted pureblood of the worst kind, kept staring at her over the breakfast table. The werewolf snarled “I didn’t do it for you, you know. I stopped the son of a bitch so we’d not fail the Dark Lord.”

“Of course,” Umbridge answered, sneering.

Paige bared her teeth in response and stood up. The other witch rose as well, facing her. Both had their wands ready. For a few seconds, it was like before. Then Umbridge sat down again, scoffing, and grabbed the Daily Prophet on the table.

Paige felt like smashing the table, but controlled herself and sat down herself. Her body was still hurting from the transformation, and the wounds she had suffered fighting - and killing - Burke. Wounds the other witch had closed for her. Damn her.

The werewolf grabbed a few sausages and wolfed them down. She kept an eye on the other bitch, watching for a reaction to her display of werewolf pride. The witch’s eye twitched, but she didn’t make a comment. Sulking, Paige leaned back and summoned tea.

If she was honest with herself, she didn’t know why she had attacked Burke. She had known that the other werewolf would have gone after her as soon as he had finished with Umbridge, but it would have been far better to wait with attacking him until he was busy with the witch; he wouldn’t have killed her, or not right away anyway. And while it was equally true that she didn’t want to fail the Dark Lord’s mission, Burke would have taken the blame.

So why had she pounced on the other werewolf, risked her life like that, for a bitch that looked down on her and wanted to exterminate werewolves? They had nothing in common, other than both having to whore themselves out for the Dark Lord.

Her brooding was interrupted by hot tea spilling over her lap - she had crushed the cup in her hand without noticing. Umbridge made a clucking noise and Paige whirled around. Once again their eyes met over crossed wands, and once again Umbridge backed down.

Paige was still growling when she had finished repairing the cup and scourgifying her robes.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort should have been in a fine mood. His ritual had worked, showing that he was on the right path. He just needed to find a way to store all the power from the sacrifice, safely store long enough to use it. His Bella had completed her mission as well, and the decoy that he had created should fool his enemies until it was too late to stop him. And yet… Potter had escaped once again - no, twice again - in Bulgaria. He told himself that the attack had been just a diversion, that he hadn’t really expected it to succeed, and that all that mattered was that he completed his ritual.

It didn’t help. That boy was too lucky! And he was destined to face the Dark Lord. Voldemort suddenly was afraid, and suppressed the emotion at once. He was immortal! He was the most powerful wizard Britain had ever seen! No matter how much luck the boy had, it wouldn’t save him! He pounded his fist on his table, then sent the parchment he had been studying away with a wave of his wand.

And yet that sliver of doubt, of fear, remained. He had been defeated once when he had faced that boy. No, not once, but twice. He remembered Quirrel burning. What would happen if they faced each other a third time? The boy’s parents had defied him three times. Could the boy even be killed by anyone but the Dark Lord himself?

It would mean no one but Potter could kill Voldemort, but then… with his Horcruxes, he couldn’t die anyway. But he could be defeated. Could be reduced to a shade. Could be caught and sealed, maybe. Who knew what Dumbledore was doing, safe in Hogwarts? No, he couldn’t trust the prophecy to protect him.

But he knew the boy could be hurt by anyone. Could Potter be crippled by anyone as well? Hurt so bad, his life would be agony, his spirit broken to the point he’d welcome death at Voldemort’s hand?

Tempting thoughts, but to implement such a plan was very difficult. Hogwarts remained a fortress, its wards protecting the students. And after his attack on the Express, the Ministry was bound to guard it, and Hogsmeade very well. He couldn’t afford another attack anyway; the cost in wands was too high.

Grinding his teeth, he sat down at his desk. He had to focus on his ritual, not on such brooding thoughts. If all went well, he’d have the means to beat Britain. And to kill the Boy-Who-Lived from afar. And yet the doubts remained.

When Bella entered his study, bringing news of the werewolf and the whore, the dark witch looked surprised when instead of listening to her report, he swept her off and carried her to the bed. Surprised, but pleased.

Afterwards, with the witch asleep, he felt better. More confident. He would prevail. He would succeed. He would conquer.

And yet, a sliver of doubt, of fear remained.

*****

As expected, the case of the mysterious failed ritual had been put on hold. Indefinitely. Kenneth Fenbrick didn’t like it - his gut told him that there was more to it than some fledgling dark wizard making a fatal mistake - but there was nothing he could do, or think of doing. They hadn’t found even part of a wand, and the body parts didn’t offer any clue to the wizard’s identity either.

And so they were back to hunting down Dolores Umbridge. “You know, if we go undercover as courtesans again, we’ll end up developing a reputation,” he said to Bertha while the scroll with all the information they had about the woman rolled itself up.

Instead of being flustered or annoyed, his partner grinned back. “Didn’t you already have a certain reputation?”

He gaped at her. She wasn’t supposed to tease him! Huffing, he busied himself with sifting through the reports again. The witch Umbridge had been seen with hadn’t been identified yet. Was she a partner, a co-worker, or an apprentice? The last was unlikely. And why would Hathaway, a homosexual, hire her and her friend’s services? He looked at Bertha. “The pattern doesn’t fit.”

She met his gaze, frowning. “Hm?”

“The switching from one rich wizard to the next. If she’s working as a courtesan, she’d not focus on a single wizard per month. That’s what you do if you’re angling to become someone’s mistress. But if she’s doing that, why drag another witch with her? And why doesn’t she succeed? From the looks of it, neither Fickleton nor Rees look terribly fond of her.” He pointed at a few wizarding pictures showing the two men glaring at the witch. Not openly though. “And Hathaway? That wizard hasn’t ever touched a witch that way.”

“Maybe she failed to wrap them around her finger, and antagonised them instead? Like it happened with the Minister?” Bertha hypothesized.

“Hm. I don’t think so. She’s smart. She wouldn’t make such a blunder three times. It’s not as if it’s that difficult to please a Wizengamot member - just pour on the flattery and keep smiling whatever happens. Skills any Ministry employee learns easily enough,” he added, cynically.

Bertha nodded, all business now. “Neither Fickleton nor Rees seem to be looking for a mistress; both have been frequenting their regular private clubs since their dalliances with Umbridge.”

“She changed her modus operandi when that other witch appeared. The young one.” The one that didn’t act like a courtesan, Kenneth thought. “She could be the key.”

“We still haven’t identified her. No one at Hogwarts recognized her,” Bertha said. “That makes her either a foreigner, but her accent is too perfect, or someone home schooled.”

“Someone schooled at home, without a decent education.” The kind of witches and wizards whores were recruited from. Or thugs. Courtesans, the real ones, generally had a better education, Kenneth knew that.

“Not someone the rich wizards she has been visiting usually bother with.” Bertha had narrowed her eyes, a sign she was thinking hard.

“Unless they’re interested in the kind of entertainment a courtesan wouldn’t agree to,” Kenneth said. “Maybe Umbridge is serving as a go-between, a door opener for that kind of clientele?”

“It doesn’t sounds too economically feasible. Not only do the wizards interested in such services already have their suppliers, but it also doesn’t explain why they don’t like her anymore afterwards.” Bertha pushed her scroll away.

“She’s not training her as a courtesan in any case.” Kenneth didn’t need to explain that; neither he nor Bertha had forgotten how they had been trained for their undercover mission by Dumbledore’s spy. “She’s the key. If we find out why she’s with Umbridge, we find out what Umbridge is up to.”

“We’ll have to ask the Wizarding Examinations Authority then, if they recognize her. Even if she’s been homeschooled she’ll have taken one O.W.L. at least.” Bertha stood up and gathered the best picture they had of the witch.

“I doubt those fossils can remember their own names, much less students,” Kenneth muttered.

“You’d be surprised how much gossip they know. Homeschooled students are always a good topic - has a family become too poor to afford Hogwarts, or are they too weak to attend?” Bertha shook her head. “I think there are good odds they’ll remember her.”

Kenneth grumbled, but followed her out of their office. He hadn’t anything better to do anyway. In addition to that, these days, even the Ministry wasn’t as safe as most people thought it was - they had discovered that themselves, after all - and he didn’t like to leave his partner on her own.

*****

Sirius Black recast the privacy spells for the third time. He knew he had cast them perfectly twice already, but all good things came in three. Or four, when it came to Veela girlfriends. Girlfriends who were growing nervous now, it seemed.

He was nervous himself. Slightly. Taking a deep breath, he turned towards the four girls sitting on the couch. “We should be safe from eavesdroppers now.”

“Do you fear ‘arry or ‘ermione would listen in?” Valérie asked. He couldn’t tell if she was more than simply curious, but she seemed a bit tense.

“No, they already know what I’m about to share with you.” And that he was about to share it. He smiled a bit weakly at the Veela’s reaction. “I know we’re alone here, but it’s a good habit to ensure privacy even if you think it’s not needed.” And he didn’t trust his house elf that much. Never had really trusted the creature.

He saw them sit straighter, which did nice things to Valérie’s and the other’s chests. Obviously his actions had impressed just how important this secret was he was about to share.

“Now… you remember the incident in Jamaica.”

All four nodded. “The attack on ‘arry by a ‘oungan,” Eugénie said.

“It wasn’t an attack,” Sirius said. “It was a vision.”

That surprised the girls. “A vision?” Laure asked.

Sirius nodded, gravely. “Harry has visions of the Dark Lord. He can see through his eyes when he works ritual magic.”

Valérie gasped, hands covering her mouth.

“That means Dumbledore knows what the Dark Lord is doing.” Chantal said.

“Part of what he’s doing,” Sirius corrected her. “But it’s an important source of information. It is absolutely crucial that the Dark Lord remains ignorant of that.”

All four nodded. Their Occlumency training would protect the secret.

“It’s not a pretty sight, Harry having a vision. His scar starts bleeding, he is struck unconscious… it’s also very obvious, which is why we need to be ready to cover such incidents up.”

“That will be ‘ard, seeing as we don’t know when a ritual will happen.” Chantal’s voice changed a bit at the end, almost turning it into a question. His girls were smart.

“He’s been doing a ritual on each full moon, and we expect that to continue.” Sirius smiled.

“People might start to suspect ‘e’s a werewolf, if ‘e always ‘ides during the full moon,” Valérie added. Smart indeed!

“We planned to have him appear under the full moon in Bulgaria, before it rose in Britain, but after the attack…” Sirius trailed off.

“We could organize a, what did Nymphadora call it, slumber party?” Eugénie smiled.

“Sadly, we cannot predict when exactly during a night a vision will take place. And those who take such rumors seriously will likely also believe that his friends are covering for him.” Sirius sighed. “We’ll have to make do with him handling silver a lot, and hope that will counteract such rumours. If they appear.”

He answered a few more questions about how to handle the visions, watched as the girls left the room. He wanted to tell them about Hermione’s secret project with Dumbledore as well, but he understood that there was no need for that - Harry’s secret required a lot of help to be kept, given its unpredictable nature. Hermione’s didn’t.

It was only logical, and yet he hated keeping such secrets from them. He loved and trusted them. They deserved to know. And yet - it wasn’t his secret to share. And if anything happened to Hermione because of him, Harry would never forgive him.

Slender arms wrapped around his chest, and he felt soft curves pressing into his back. Valérie. He heard her whisper into his ear, and felt her breath on his throat.

“You are troubled. Is it because such a connection works both ways, and could be used by the Dark Lord?”

He stiffened for a second, his worst fear exposed, then nodded. She didn’t say anything else, just held him.

Smart indeed.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore looked like just another muggle tourist in Constantinople - Istanbul, as the muggles called it. He even had a muggle camera dangling from cheap, flimsy straps held in his hand. And, even though he’d deny it if asked, he had been seeing the sights in the muggle city. So much had changed since he had been here last, decades ago.

He had entered the Empire with the help of a Greek smuggler, down the coast. Using a fishing boat, he had disembarked at a cove or hidden beach on the Turkish coast. Just like he and Sasha and his wands had entered the country the last time. Once inside the country, past the border guards and patrols, it had been easy to apparate northwards, until he reached the capital of the Empire.

He had spent enough time gawking though - he had a scumbag to find, and a girl to rescue. Like the last time.

Ducking into a small, dark alley, he transfigured his clothes - hideous muggle fashion only tourists seemed to be wearing, he’d get some as a souvenir for his brother if he didn’t hate him - into the outfit of an Ottoman wizard. A quick Colour Change Charm turned his hair and beard black, and a sip from a vial darkened his skin tone. So disguised, he continued down the alley, which grew narrower and narrower, until he suddenly was faced with a solid wall. Or what a muggle would have seen as a solid wall.

He stepped through, and found himself in Magical Constantinople. Unlike Wizarding Britain’s Diagon Alley, this wasn’t just a shopping street and red light district, but an entire town, hidden from the muggles in the heart of the city itself. The old wizard didn’t gawk at the sight of dozens of genies walking and flying around, on tasks for their masters, or at the plethora of exotic wizards and magical creatures filling the streets. Only those new to the city would do that, and the thieves and conmen of the city liked to prey on those. Aberforth could handle either kind, but he couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself. The Ottomans still hadn’t forgotten what he had done.

And neither had he forgotten what they had done.

On the way to a tavern he knew, he passed the old slave market. Officially, it was defunct, the trade abolished. Unofficially, everyone, even the ICW, knew that the trade still went on, just not as obvious as in the past, and in private locations instead. According to the Ottoman Empire’s official word on the matter, ‘rogues and bandits’ supplied the slaves, and ‘foreigners’ bought them. Discreetly, so the authorities could claim ignorance.

He passed a patrol of two janissaries, the bright red and gold headdress with the distinct large white flap hanging from it easily visible even in a throng of people. Officially, the elite wands of the Sultan were all recruited among the orphans within the Empire, or born to janissaries. Aberforth didn’t trust that claim, just as he didn’t trust the claim that they were all loyal unto death to the Sultan.

They were skilled though, and their reputation well-earned. He passed the Persian Park and almost entered - the Hanging Gardens, copies of the famous Babylonian ones, were a sight to behold, filled with all magical plants known to man. It was a claim Aberforth was inclined to trust, even if The Quibbler tended to disagree.

Above him half a dozen flying carpets were flitting around. Not quite as fast or agile as brooms - not even close, actually, given the latest generation of quidditch and racing brooms - they were far more suited to transport people, and far more comfortable as well. Too bad, he thought, that they had been banned in Britain after The Intervention, in a fit of pique. Albus probably had let it happen for one reason or the other.

He pushed thoughts of his brother away and continued on, his robe’s protections flaring once in response to a magical pickpocketing attempt. He kept the culprit in sight and his wand out until the suddenly glowing teenager had disappeared in a side alley. While most such thieves went after distracted marks, some of them were hired to serve as distractions.

Finally he reached the tavern he had been seeking. It hadn’t changed much either since his last visit. Arkan was still behind the bar. The British wizard approached him and ordered a tea. When the steaming cup floated towards him, followed by the kettle, he smiled. “I’ve been missing your tea, Arkan. It’s been too long.”

The Ottoman narrowed his eyes, but didn’t seem to recognize him. Well, Aberforth wasn’t the famous Dumbledore, after all, and Arkan must have known hundreds of mercenaries and other low-lives. As a fellow bartender, Aberforth would even feel a sort of kinship, if the man wasn’t such an unscrupulous sort.

“Have you been here before?” The Ottoman was still looking at him.

“Once, after ‘The Intervention’.” He saw the other wizard stiffen. The Ottomans didn’t speak of ‘The Intervention’; they called it ‘The Invasion’. He grinned at the man. When Arkan’s eyes widened, realizing who he was at last, Aberforth smiled toothily and slid a wizarding picture taken of a polyjuiced girl over. “Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova. The name would have been changed years ago. That’s what she looks like today. I want to know where she is, and if she has been recently kidnapped.”

Arkan grew just a bit paler and Aberforth’s smile just a bit wider. Jackpot.

*****

“Visualize the destination. You need to be completely certain where you want to travel.”

Hermione Granger remembered her lessons in Jamaica while Remus instructed Ron. It was so familiar. The circle painted on the floor in the hall in Sirius’s house where her friend was to apparate to. She hadn’t had any trouble with being certain where she had wanted to be. And she also wanted to appear there. Very much. So much for ‘determination’.

What the young witch had had trouble with was the ‘deliberation’ Apparition apparently required. While she understood the need to be careful, lest she be splinched, she had not been careful enough. Too eager, Sirius had said, after attaching a foot she had left behind. She hadn’t been able to refute that - she had needed to learn Apparition to protect Harry better.

That would have been humiliating enough, but Harry had had mastered the technique rather quickly.

Ron was trying again, and he was doing better than she had done too. Unless he splinched himself worse. No… he had just lost an eyebrow. Easily reattached. Ron probably was just better than her at taking it slow, she thought. Harry rubbed her hand, and she felt guilty - had her expression given her jealousy away? She looked down, remembering the moment she had mastered it.

_She had wanted to appear there. And without leaving anything behind! Like her robe - that had been humiliating. She had wanted it almost more than anything else. Her pride had been on the line! Grinding her teeth, she had tuned Sirius out, had tuned Valérie out, had tried not to glance at Harry, and had willed herself to conquer space and time._

_Suddenly she had experienced the by now familiar feeling of getting squeezed through a tube, her whole body squeezed into a far too small box or tube. She had fought the sudden panic - she wouldn’t have let what thousands of wizards and witches did daily scare her into losing control._

_And then she had stood in the circle, panting, but… a quick check had confirmed it, she had been whole. Beaming, she had turned around._

_“You did it,” Sirius had declared, stowing his wand after checking magically. He had her repeat the feat half a dozen times before he was satisfied though._

_“Finally! I was about to check if you had been replaced by a polyjuiced spy!” Harry had said. She glared at him until he had hugged her. “We’ve been worried, you know.”_

_“I can’t be perfect at everything.” She had pouted. She had wanted to be though._

_“What’s important is that we now can apparate. We’re no longer limited to the Floo Network and portkeys.”_

_That had made her smile. They were no longer limited to Hogsmeade either, during the weekends. She could… her face had fallen._

_“What’s wrong?”_

_The young witch had looked at Harry. “I just thought: I could visit my parents each weekend, or maybe even each evening, if I so wanted - if they were not currently hiding from the Dark Lord’s murderers.”_

_“They’ll still be hiding on a world cruise,” Harry had said, his voice carefully neutral. “And they’re here now, with you.”_

_That would make the coming separation worse, she had known, but she had not said anything, she had simply nodded._

Ron’s cheers brought her back to the present. Her friend had mastered Apparition. As fast as Harry had done it. She fought down her jealousy. She couldn’t be the best at everything. She couldn’t be perfect. But she wanted to be.

*****

Pansy Parkinson smiled sweetly at her guests. As a good host should. Greengrass and Davis were visiting again. The two had been over regularly during the vacation. Too often, for Pansy’s taste. Well, not really. Even the blonde twit’s presence was preferable to yet another attempt by her parents to lock her up in their home for her own safety. It wouldn’t do to hide her when other families didn’t, lest the public thought the Parkinsons were either cowards, or too weak to protect themselves outside their wards. Too bad Greg was away on a family visit.

So, Greengrass was, Pansy thought, a sort of necessary evil. Davis, on the other hand, was smart and witty. It was … nice to chat with her, and gossip about others.

“What do you think about Potter beating the Dark Lord yet again?” Greengrass wasn’t smart or witty, of course. The twit still seemed to think they were now friends. She probably thought all those animals The Quibbler wrote about were real as well.

“Do you mean Potter escaping yet another attack on him during his vacation in Bulgaria? The Dark Lord wasn’t present there, as far as I know.” Pansy summoned sweets and drinks for everyone from the tray their house elf had just put down on the table.

“He could have been there though!” The twit wasn’t about to surrender to reality anytime soon, it seemed.

“He wasn’t. As the year before, it was a group of hired wands, from the Balkans or the Ottoman Empire,” Pansy pointed out.

“They were Ottomans this time, or so I heard,” Davis added. “If that continues, then Potter will have been attacked by assassins from every continent and country before he finishes his N.E.W.T.s.”

“And he’ll have beaten them all! He’s so brave!” Yes, Greengrass was still infatuated with Potter.

“He wasn’t alone. He was with Krum and Weasley.” Davis looked at Greengrass with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. Pansy had the impression that she did that very often.

“Our year’s Weasley?”

“Yes,” Pansy answered, “Ron Weasley.”

“He’s brave too!”

“They’re Gryffindors. Bravery is mandatory for them. Brains, not so much,” Davis smirked.

“Neither of them’s a fool,” Pansy said. She didn’t know why - Davis words were not exactly something new, but covered the general view Slytherins had of their rival house quite well. When she saw the other witch raise an eyebrow, she knew she wouldn’t back down though. “You saw them teach us. They’re not as smart as Granger, but who is?”

“Not me!” Greengrass announced. Davis and Pansy exchanged a glance.

“Weasley would be a good catch. Smart, rich, and no heir,” Davis said, a bit too casually in Pansy’s opinion.

“He’s no Potter though!”

Pansy ignored the twit and met Davis’s eyes. “And unlike Potter, he doesn’t come with Granger attached to his side.” And only a foolish witch would assume they’d not play second fiddle behind the muggleborn even if they married the Boy-Who-Lived.

“Mh.” Davis nodded.

“She’s pretty though, so that’s no drawback.”

Pansy sighed. “Greengrass, she’s a true m-muggleborn. They don’t think like we do. You’ll not get a threesome.” She’d probably get a hex to the face for asking, even, but that was not Pansy’s problem.

To her surprise, the blonde sighed. “I can dream though, can’t I? It’s not as if I can marry him anyway. He’s a head.”

“Yes. What a waste,” Davis chimed in.

“Well, I just want to sleep with him!”

“You and half our year.” Davis’s comment sounded well-used to Pansy.

“Weasley has a girlfriend too. Patil.” Greengrass pointed out.

“I heard the Patils might not even return to England from India,” Davis said.

Pansy wouldn’t mind that, even if Hogwarts had already lost too many students. “We’ll see if that’s true in a month.”

“What plans do you have for the year?” Davis asked, once again deceptively causally.

“Potter!” Both ignored Greengrass’s answer again.

Pansy shrugged. “There are a number of attractive students in our year I’d not mind getting to know a bit better.”

“Such as Weasley?” Davis smiled again.

“Anyone going out with Weasley is painting a big target on their back,” Pansy answered. That wouldn’t really deter her though - not after almost getting killed by Voldemort’s raiders once already.

“It would keep you on your toes though. And the Weasleys seem to be among the up and coming families. The twins’ shop is doing well, considering the war. And another brother is getting known in the Ministry.”

“And his sister got her hooks into Longbottom. Too bad they hate Slytherins, hm?” Pansy said.

“Boys will be boys. I haven’t heard of any Gryffindor who actually refused the advances of a pretty member of our house during their sixth year.” Davis grinned.

Pansy laughed, even though she was not really amused. She didn’t know if she actually wanted Weasley, but she certainly wouldn’t let Davis steal him away before she decided if she wanted him. Her cousin Almira had told her the most interesting stories about the Gryffindor’s older brothers.

*****

Ron Weasley stared at the Hogwarts letter he had just received. And at the badge inside. Quidditch Captain. For Gryffindor. He hadn’t expected that. He had hoped for it, of course. But Harry was their star player, prefect and the Boy-Who-Lived. He was just Ron. Ron, team captain now.

Slowly he started to smile. He didn’t know if Harry had refused the position, if McGonagall had decided that Harry already had too much on his plate, or if Ron’s proposed plays had been so good she decided he’d be the best choice for captain.

But he knew he’d work twice as hard now, so there wouldn’t be any doubt at the end of the year why he had received the position!

He had to tell his family. And Harry and Hermione.

It wasn’t until much later that he realised that he had not thought about informing his girlfriend until his mum had reminded him.

*****

“And that’s the basic outline for the ritual’s first part, sir,”

“Remarkable. The concept seems sound, though it needs adjustments to overcome the mark’s defenses.” Albus Dumbledore was genuinely impressed while he studied the notes Miss Granger had spread out on his desk.

“I know. I expect that won’t take too long though. I worry about the second part though.” The young witch bit her lower lip, worrying,

“The removal of the fragment in Harry’s scar?” He slightly raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. All the spells I found that could succeed at that were… questionable.”

He knew that if there was no better choice, the girl in front of him would use such questionable means. In a heartbeat even. “I assume you have a plan though.”

“I have an idea. But to craft the spell I need more information about similar spells.”

“Soul magic is banned in Britain,” Albus stated.

“I’m not planning to cast any. But I need to research them for the ritual.”

“Which you plan to conduct.” He ran a hand through his beard.

“Yes.” She raised her chin defiantly, daring him to try and change her plans.

He knew better. “Understandable. I have a number of private notes detailing some spells. Unfinished.” Mostly. He and Gellert had been rather active, back in the days.

Her eyes lit up. “That’s… very good, sir. Thank you!”

“It will not be easy to adapt them to a ritual though,” he cautioned her.

“I’ll do it.” No doubt, no hesitation.

“That kind of magic might also require a price to be paid.”

“I’ll pay it.”

He sighed. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. There were ways around some requirements, but in the end, someone had to pay the price for ritual magic. He’d rather pay it himself than have a child pay.

“I’ll have the notes sent to you tomorrow.”

“Thank you!”

The eager answer made him smile. The girl hadn’t let the realities of war crush her. Yet. “Now, do you have any questions?”

“Oh, yes.”

*****

Constable John Brown first heard the screams. Horrible, desperate screams. His partner, Ethan Flynn, gasped, then accelerated the patrol car they were driving in the outskirts of Edinburgh. Whoever was screaming needed help. And quickly.

Before they found the victim though the screams ended. John cursed - that was a very bad sign. Then they reached the small park in the heart of the suburb - barely more than a few trees and underbrush - and Ethan hit the brakes, hard. Before them, in the middle of the road, was a man on the ground. John and Ethan got out of the car at once.

“He’s alive, I’ve got a pulse!” Ethan cried out while John was calling an ambulance. The man wouldn’t wake up though. Maybe it was an overdose.

Then he started to feel cold - really cold. His breath became visible, and he started to see some frost appearing on the ground. “Ethan?”

“John? Are you as cold as I am?”

He slowly nodded, rubbing his arms. “This is… I don’t what this is. It’s the middle of the summer!”

“The screams came from a w-woman. This is a m-man,” Ethan started to say, his teeth chattering.

“Damn!” John shook his head. “I’ll check the park out. Stay with him.” He was halfway across the street before Ethan managed to answer.

The park looked even worse. Frost covered the ground and the plants. It looked as if he had stepped into the arctic. It wasn’t as cold anymore though. Then he saw the people on the ground. Covered with frost. Unmoving. Like the victim they had almost run over.

“Dear Lord!” He stared at the bodies, three of them - an entire family, it looked like - for a second, then rushed forward, calling another ambulance. He checked the pulse of the three bodies. They were alive, but he couldn’t wake any of them. Then he heard another scream. Ethan!

He stood up and sprinted back towards the road. When he reached the park’s entrance, he saw Ethan was on the ground, unmoving and covered with frost. What had happened? He took a step towards his partner, then reeled as memories rose within him.

He was six. His sister had taken his new book and didn’t want to give it back. He ripped it out of her hand and pushed her away. She stumbled, and fell - and her head landed on a metal toy car. All that blood… the trip to the hospital… his parents’ reactions … he felt like crying forever.

His partner needed him. He took another step forward.

He was twenty. A fresh recruit. He had been sent to check an illegally parked and possibly abandoned car and noticed the smell coming from the trunk. He opened it, and was faced with a half-decayed corpse.

Shaking, he stumbled, and almost fell.

He was thirty-one. His father was dying. Painfully. Cancer had turned a strong man in a shadow of himself, unable to eat or talk. So many tubes, going into his body. Only the eyes were the same he remembered, but those were pleading, begging for something he didn’t know he could do.

He was on the ground. Why was he on the ground? He didn’t remember falling down. Something touched him. Something really, really cold. He didn’t see anything.

Then his head was lifted up by an invisible hand, and his lips started to freeze, and he wanted to scream, but couldn’t as his soul was sucked out.

*****


	48. The Rescue

**Chapter 48: The Rescue**

“Good afternoon, Mister Asperburry.”

Albus Dumbledore smiled at the leader of the four Hit-Wizards who had their wands trained on him in the floo room in the Ministry while he stepped through the Thief’s Downfall. He didn’t like to have wands trained on him, and had to still his first urge to disarm them all, but was good to see them working diligently, and not slacking off, even though no one working for the Dark Lord had been caught here in months.

“Good afternoon, Chief Warlock,” Asperburry saluted him with his wand. The others were already paying attention to the next arrivals - well trained indeed, but then, Albus wouldn’t have expected anything else from Asperburry; the wizard had been a strict and dutiful Hufflepuff prefect, after all. Like Amelia Bones, whom the Headmaster was meeting in the Ministry.

“Good afternoon, Albus.” The witch in question nodded at him when he entered, barely looking up from the parchment she was reading as he took a seat and a tray with sweets and tea floated towards him.

“Good afternoon, Amelia.” He served himself, packing a few sweets for Fawkes while Amelia refilled her own tea cup with a flick of her wand. “You have news you said?” That that meant important or urgent news - which usually was the same - was left unsaid; she wouldn’t have called him for routine reports.

“Yes. Yesterday, six muggles, two of them constables, were found in a coma in Edinburgh.”

He stiffened. “Dementors?” It was the most likely explanation, both for the condition, and Amelia’s call.

“All symptoms and circumstances match a Dementor attack, including an unnatural cold witnesses mentioned.” Amelia’s face showed a grim expression. Her lips were pressed so tightly together, they formed a thin line.

Albus briefly closed his eyes. Six souls lost. He took a deep breath, then met Amelia’s eyes. “Was that the only such incident?”

“So far. We’ve kept an eye on muggle reports ever since Azkaban. The muggle authorities assume there was some sort of drug or chemical involved.”

He nodded. As sick as it was, Dementor attacks were easy to cover up for wizards. Far less of a problem than enchanted toilet seats. The Statute of Secrecy wasn’t in danger, yet.

“Why do you think those monsters attacked now, after all those months?”

That was the crucial question, he knew. Rubbing his chin, he answered: “I do not think the Dark Lord ordered this. Attacking muggles, even as a distraction to force us to spend wands and resources on guarding muggles, is not worth the risk of the ICW intervening to protect the Statute of Secrecy.”

“Do you think he’s lost control over the Dementors?”

“Our efforts to prevent him from smuggling in muggles who were kidnapped abroad might have started to show results.” It wasn’t likely though - it was just too easy to kidnap muggles. Albus didn’t want to think about the numbers of muggles they hadn’t been able to save, the unfortunate souls that ended up feeding the Dementors - or sacrificed for dark rituals. “But if he had truly lost control over them, if whatever deal he had struck with them had been broken, then we would have had far more such reports.”

“The Dementors were pushing the boundaries then. Just as they were at Azkaban.” Amelia sounded almost relieved.

“That is likely. They are intelligent, after all.” And greedy, and cruel. A guard at Azkaban had once likened working with Dementors as holding the leashes of a pack of hungry grims to keep them from feeding on a buffet - or on yourself. “They might also be testing the Dark Lord, to see if they can alter the deal.”

“Should we prepare for an imminent attack on wizards and witches then?”

“I do not think he has the wands for such an attack.” Dementors couldn’t break into locked homes, not without help from wizards, and just about everyone in Wizarding Britain was now living behind the strongest wards they could afford - often in the mansions of the Old Families. Those protections would withstand an attack long enough for reinforcements to arrive. “Not to spare, at least. Though he might try to set the Dementors on us anyway, but as a distraction for both us and them, I do not think that is likely.” The Dark Lord was still working on his ritual. Not that Albus could tell Amelia that, the risk of the secret being revealed to the enemy was too big.

“We still need to be ready though.” The witch sighed. “I’ll have our contingencies reviewed.”

“Indeed,” the Headmaster said, even though he knew that whatever work was spent on that task would be missed elsewhere. Judging by Amelia’s expression, she knew that as well. And yet, they had to. For there was one possible target that would be very vulnerable to a horde of Dementors. “If the Aurors and Hit-Wizards guarding the Hogwarts Express were taken by surprise by such an attack, the consequences would be too terrible to contemplate.”

The sharp hiss from Amelia showed him that she had considered that as well.

“It is very fortunate that Remus Lupin has had a lot of success teaching his students the Patronus Charms,” Albus said casually.

“Oh, indeed. If not for him, we’d have to keep our most experienced Aurors in reserve just to guard against dementors. As it is, we can use our youngest recruits for that.”

Albus smiled. He was very pleased at hearing those words, and would bring that thought up with the Minister later as well. If Remus’s condition should ever be revealed to the public, being able to point at him as the wizard responsible for teaching their children to defend themselves and others against Dementors would come in handy to keep him as a teacher. Coupled with support from Harry, and maybe a few heroic deeds by Remus in the war, it might even be enough to reform the werewolf laws.

Provided the werewolves serving the Dark Lord did not commit more atrocities.

“There’s something else,” Amelia ventured and floated a few pictures over to him. “Do you recognize this witch? My Aurors are certain she’s a British witch, but we haven’t been able to identify her yet.”

Albus studied the pictures. A young woman, in the company of Dolores Umbridge - ironically, the witch behind many of the modern werewolf laws he had just been thinking of. From what he could see of the background of the picture, they were in a private club. Courtesans, not guests according to their robes. The other witch was young enough she wouldn’t look too different from what she had looked like as a student. To his great dismay, he hadn’t been able to be as involved with his students as he would have liked. It was not inconceivable that he’d forget a student that had not drawn attention to her. But the girl did look familiar... his eyes widened. “Paige Caldwell! That is a surprise!”

“Why?” Amelia asked, staring at him.

“She took her O.W.L.s 8 years ago, but did not return to Hogwarts. She was attacked by a werewolf during her summer holiday.” Her family had kept it quiet, though that hadn’t kept him from finding out why a student left his school without taking her N.E.W.T.s.

“A werewolf with the witch behind the latest and harshest werewolf regulations?” Amelia sounded almost shocked.

“Who would have thought.” Did Dolores have a change of heart after her fall from grace? It was not impossible, but another explanation was more likely - someone was forcing her to work with a werewolf. And while her views didn’t quite align fully with the Dark Lord’s, he could imagine her working for Tom.

“This smells like a plot from the Dark Lord.” Amelia had come to the same conclusion. She snorted. “And I thought the Minister was just afraid of what his former lover might do - or reveal.”

He looked at her over the rim of his glasses. “I think it is imperative to investigate this thoroughly.”

Amelia nodded. “According to our information, Umbridge has been switching love interests each month, approximately, and always went for rich, influential wizards with a weakness for vices.”

“That does raise some concern,” Albus commented. The kind of people Amelia described would know better than to open themselves to blackmail, but Dolores was smart, if not as smart as she thought she was.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, Albus. Thank you for your help.”

“I am always happy to help.”

On the way back to the floo centre, Albus wished his brother was back in Britain. Aberforth had contacts in the scene Dolores frequented, and would likely be able to shed some light into the affair. Alas, he knew that his brother would not leave Constantinople until he had rescued that girl he had mentioned - Aberforth was feeling far too much guilt about his past failure to abandon what he must be seeing as a chance to redeem himself.

If only the stubborn fool would realise that he had done his best, and wasn’t at fault! Albus shook his head - his brother would likely never accept that. He was far too similar to Albus himself in that regard.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort frowned, looking at the amulet on his desk. According to the deal he had struck with the Dementors, it would protect its wearer against them. So far, it and the others like it hadn’t failed. But the deal also stipulated that the Dementors would only hunt if he told them to, as long as he’d supply them with victims to feed upon.

And the wards he had laid over the ruins those creatures were kept in had signalled that half a dozen of them had left, for hours, before returning. Had they broken the deal? That would only be possible if someone else had offered them a better deal. As far as he knew, at least - and as far as Renquirt, the Ministry’s expert for the monsters, knew.

He lifted the amulet up, then let it drop on the desk’s polished surface. It wasn’t as if he had a written, clear and concise contract. Dementors were not human, and did not think like wizards. Though as long as he had upheld his part of the deal, they should have upheld theirs - and Voldemort knew he had delivered enough muggles to them to fulfill his obligation. He had even delivered more than the agreed-upon number, until acquiring the animals had become a bit more costly than expected, and his finances had suffered the recent reverse. Surely that wouldn’t…

He shook his head. Maybe they had considered his generosity as altering the deal, and now required the new number of victims per month? There was a reason one did not tip goblins, after all, those filthy creatures would not only see that as a weakness, but raise their rates in turn.

It was just a theory, but one he could act upon, at least. Acquiring more foreign muggles through the usual channels would be costly though. At the same time, grabbing British muggles was dangerous - the Ministry would be branding him as a threat to the Statue of Secrecy as soon as they had proof. Or a reasonable suspicion.

Still, it was not impossible to avoid such calamities. Muggles, even British ones, could disappear without a trace and without raising any suspicions, under the right circumstances. Boats sank all the time, after all, many of them disappearing without a trace, for years. With a bit of planning he could acquire dozens of muggles, without anyone ever knowing he had done so.

But who could he trust with such a task? His Bella was as skilled as she was loyal, but she had no experience with muggles. Like his other followers - none of them had been raised in the muggle world. Not that he’d trust any of them otherwise. That left only hiring a specialist - with all the doubts about their loyalty hirelings brought with them, and the increased costs - or doing it himself. And his own knowledge of muggle Britain was decades out of date.

He shook his head. He had no desire, none at all, to return to that primitive, dirty and stinking world. He left that orphanage behind forever, with all the humiliation and misery he had suffered from. He could send the Ddementors against the wizards, in the hope they’d cause some losses before they were dealt with, but he’d rather not waste more of his resources. Not at this point at least. But once his ritual was ready, they’d serve as a fine distraction.

Decision taken, he stashed the amulet in his enchanted pockets again. He needed more gold to hire more help. It was time to make a few plans.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore, sitting in a café on the street, nodded his thanks at the young genie who floated a tray with a small cup of coffee towards him. A flick of his wand and a mumbled word sent a copper coin flying through the air. The little creature darted forward, grabbing the coin with both hands and saying something so quickly, he wouldn’t have understood it even if he knew the genie tongue.

Taking a sip from the coffee he put a fake smile on his face - he greatly prefered tea, but his cover was better served with coffee. At least it was stimulating, even though a shot of whiskey would not have gone amiss. Sighing, let his gaze wander over the main street of Magical Constantinople. It was full of people and magical creatures, mostly genies of all sizes and kinds, a wondrous sight for anyone used to the smaller magical quarters in Europe.

Those who were on their way to the Grand Mosque were easily recognizable thanks to their robes. Lightweight and thin, made from silk, with long, billowing sleeves, those robes reached the ankles and their decorations denoted the social standing of their wearers - the more magical, the higher the person’s rank. Transparent veils were worn by the witches, bashlyks by the wizards. They were followers of a branch of sufism that did not condemn sorcery, just sorcery for evil ends - or so Aberforth had been told. He was quite certain that the definition of ‘evil ends’ was rather flexible in practise.

In contrast, the majority of the crowd was wearing bright, colorful and often daring robes, even for wizards, usually combining a sleeveless vest with billowing pants, decorated with elemental motives - or made up from the elements themselves. Those were the Ottomans who had, after the Statute of Secrecy had gone into effect, rejected the quran and its forbiddance of sorcery, and had returned to the faith of their ancestors, revering Sky Father in a floating temple opposite the Grand Mosque. Those were the Ottomans Magical Europe was most familiar with, the masters of the genies and elemental sorcery - and the evil eye. That they were revering the same god the Bulgarians did was a topic best never mentioned in either country.

As usual at the time of prayers, the Janissaries were out in force, ready to intervene should the tension between the two factions threaten to spill into violence. The Sultans had learned their lessons after the Great Schism in the last century, when religious violence had almost torn the Empire apart in a conflict so brutal, it was said the Sultan’s Plaza had been covered with blood for a week. According to legend, the Sultan at the time, Adem I, had given his life in a ritual to end the violence. Aberforth didn’t doubt that a ritual had taken place, but he couldn’t help wondering if the Sultan had actually volunteered for the sacrifice - the Janissaries, nominally followers of the Old Gods, were known to be the power behind the throne, after all.

Finishing his coffee, Aberforth frowned at himself. He was turning into Albus, idly pondering academical questions without any relevance to the matter at hand. He wasn’t here to study the Ottomans, he was here to save a kidnapped girl and to track down the wizard responsible for the attack on the Boy-Who-Lived.

If only Arkan would deliver already! Aberforth hated the fact that he didn’t know anyone else in the city, and that his cover would be blown quickly should he interact directly with the kind of people who knew what he sought. And that he couldn’t do anything for the other victims of Ottoman and Barbary Coast raiders - ‘rogues and bandits’, according to the Empire’s official stance - who had been kidnapped and sold as slaves, to be imprisoned behind the walls hiding the estates of the rich here, or used as curse fodder in the skirmishes with Persia.

A genie the size of his hand landed on the table, chirping what he recognized as a greeting and holding out a parcel the size of a coin towards him with an eager, bright smile. He pointed his wand at the parcel, casting a few subtle detection spells before summoning it towards him. One couldn’t be too careful, after all. He fished for another copper coin in his purse while the genie investigated his empty cup of coffee before pointing at it with a questioning expression on her tiny face.

For a moment, Aberforth was confused, then he smiled, banishing the copper towards the genie, and nodding. “Feel free.”

The tiny creature beamed at him, then gestured with her hand, and a drop of coffee left in the cup floated towards her wide open mouth. Fascinated, he watched as she swallowed, blinked, coughed, and then shot in the air with a trilling sound of glee, almost disappearing in the sky before returning to snatch up the coin left for her, and speeding away again.

“Give me owls any day,” Aberforth muttered, though with a smile on his face, before casting a privacy spell and unshrinking and opening the parcel. Inside was a fez with a combination of colors only Albus would love, and a scrap of parchment with a single line on it: Abdul al-Samar.

Aberforth smiled. He had the name of the man he sought. And soon he’d have the name of the girl as well. One victim would soon be free - and maybe his guilt at having failed Neola would be lessened a bit.

*****

“Dumbledore recognized our mystery witch,” Kenneth Fenbrick said to Bertha Limmington, when he entered their office, waving around the note he had just received.

“Oh?”

“Paige Caldwell. Hufflepuff. Took her O.W.L.s in 1988, then was attacked by a werewolf during the full moon.” He didn’t have to add that she couldn’t continue school after that.

“Umbridge working as a courtesan with a werewolf? That sounds rather implausible,” Bertha commented. The usually unflappable Ravenclaw looked almost shocked.

“Unless Dumbledore has gone senile, that’s exactly what is going on. I’d not rule that out, of course,” Kenneth joked. When his partner briefly rolled her eyes, he continued: “In any case, that’s enough to arrest her.”

“We would need reasonable suspicion of her being a threat to others for that,” his partner said.

Kenneth scoffed. Bertha knew as well as he did that werewolves could be arrested whenever the Aurors wanted. “Arresting her would tip off anyone else involved in whatever she and Umbridge are doing though.” Not to mention that making an arrest in the kind of venues their mystery witch frequented needed a lot of wands to ensure the hired wands wouldn’t try to interfere. And the more wands you had, the higher the chance one of them was on the take from the owner of whatever place you were raiding. Not even a civil war against a Dark Lord had stomped out that kind of corruption.

“Do you want to observe her instead then?”

“Yes. A werewolf courtesan… that’s kinky.” He chuckled, thinking of all the dirty jokes he could make about that.

“I doubt her clients are aware.” Bertha fell silent.

Kenneth looked at her. “They change clients each month.” If what he was suspecting…

“Each full moon.”  
  
“Merlin’s balls! If she’s been cursing them… I think this exceeds our authority.”

“Technically, the Beast Division of the Magical Creatures Department is in charge of werewolves.”

Kenneth gaped at her. She knew perfectly well that anyone accusing the kind of wizards Umbridge and Caldwell had been involved with of being a werewolf was very likely to ruin their career. Or lose their life. He was about to point that out when he caught the faint grin on Bertha’s face. He groaned.

“Let’s inform the boss.”

*****

Abdul al-Samar studied the note he had received. The men he had hired had caught the foolish foreigner asking questions about him. That had been quick, but then - foreigners tended to stick out in Constantinople. They didn’t know how business was done in the city. How to avoid making waves that would disturb the peace with the Janissaries.

For a moment he considered having the thugs bring the man to him. No one would disturb him here. His house was not just larger than those of his neighbors, his wards were far stronger as well. He decided against it though. Bringing that kind of business home would be a bad idea. He muttered a curse under his breath. By all rights he should be living in a better area, closer to the Sultan’s Palace. He had the gold for it. More than enough. And yet he couldn’t find anyone who’d sell to him, even though he knew houses were regularly sold. His gold just wasn’t old enough for the notables of Magical Constantinople.

But he’d show them. Sooner or later, one of those arrogant old families would make a mistake, and need his services. And then he’d have leverage on them.

Grinning at that thought, he called his bodyguard, who was as usual waiting right outside his door. “Ahmed! Take half a dozen of my guards, the discreet ones. I have a meeting to attend.”

The tall, wiry wizard bowed in return. He’d contact some of the more reliable thugs in the city while Abdul put on a disguise. Leverage wouldn’t help him if he was seen with thugs.

A few minutes later Abdul and Ahmed apparated to a small, dirty courtyard where half a dozen thugs were waiting. He was familiar with most of them, all sufists,but didn’t bother greeting them by name.

“I need to speak with a visitor to our city, and I don’t want to be disturbed during the meeting.” Abdul didn’t have to say anything else; the hired wands knew their business. And they knew he paid them generously. “The meeting’s in the Blue Tavern.” The thugs started to grin.

The name of the Blue Tavern was supposedly a slight against the Blue Mosque, chosen by a fervent convert to the Sky Father who had founded the tavern in the 12th century - or the 19th, if you were using the European calendar. Whatever the reason, it was now known as the place to conduct your business in private. Even the Janissaries trod lightly when visiting - the current proprietor, known as ‘Gökhan’, had a veritable army of jinn at his disposal.

Abdul nodded at the two towering genies - Daos - next to the door and pointed at the hired wands with him. “They’re with me.” The larger genie nodded, and the door opened. Inside, the air smelled of smoke - a dozen shishas were being passed around at any moment, he thought - and of liquor. A few girls wearing nothing but strings of coins were dancing on tables while trays bearing drinks floated through the room. Abdul briefly glanced over his shoulder, to make sure his hired wands were paying attention to him, instead of ogling the flesh on display. So reassured, he approached the bar. The genie behind it - a four-armed giant surrounded by floating glasses and bottles that whirled around him - pointed him towards the backdoor. Abdul dropped a generous tip and went to meet his contact.

He met Kasim in a rather sparsely furnished room. Easier to clean up, he guessed. The foreigner, an old man with a badly dyed beard, was sitting on a chair, securely bound with spells and manacles. He seemed to be screaming something, but Abdul couldn’t hear a single word - he must be under a Silencing Charm. No one else was there. Did his contact trust him that much to meet him while outnumbered? Or had his wands already sought out company to spend their pay? He turned to the wizard. “Did he give you any trouble?”

Kasim shook his head, which surprised Abdul - the man usually never lost an opportunity to boast. And those spells securing the captive were unusual too, now that he thought of it… his eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to alert his men, but Kasim already had his wand out. A swish, and Abdul and all his men were smashed back against the walls by an overpowered Banishing Charm.

Abdul’s robe absorbed most of the impact, as did that of Ahmed, which he had paid for, but next to him he saw one of his hired wands, on the ground and groaning on in pain. Ahmed didn’t hesitate and was casting before he had found his footing, sending a Killing Curse and Flensing Curse at Kasim.

The traitor ducked behind the captive, and both curses missed. Abdul cast a shield and started towards the door, trampling over the groaning man on the floor. He couldn’t apparate inside the tavern, nor use a portkey, but if he made it back to the main room, he’d have help - Gökhal didn’t tolerate fighting in his tavern.

A whip of fire lashed through the room, cutting down two thugs who had started to cast at Kasim, and shattering his own shield before another enchantment on his robe stopped it. The rest of the thugs and Ahmed were sending spell after spell at the traitor, though many missed, and most of the rest hit the captive or were stopped by Kasim’s Shield Charm.

Abdul cast another shield and tried once more to reach the door. One of the thugs had had the same idea, and beat him to it. Before he could open it though, spikes shot up from the floor and down from the ceiling, impaling the wizard and walling off the door. More spikes were growing out of the walls, this time horizontally, and Abdul dropped to the floor just in time to avoid another Banishing Charm. No one else was as fortunate, and while Ahmed was still standing, though bleeding from a wound on his back, the rest of the thugs were done for.

This wasn’t Kasim, he realised. Kasim wasn’t half the wizard this man was. He had to be someone else who had taken the hired wand’s place and appearance. Snarling, Abdul pulled a small bottle out of his robe and opened it. At once, thick smoke filled the room, reducing visibility to a few feet and a massive blue-skinned Marid appeared next to him. He asked in a booming voice: “How may I serve you, mas… oh, you’re in trouble!”

Abdul ignored the wide grin the genie wore, and pointed at the area the impostor was in. “Stop that…”

Once more he was interrupted when the smoke vanished and he dropped to the floor to avoid a hail of iron marbles that had appeared in the smoke’s place and shot towards him. When he didn’t hit the ground as hard as he had feared, he first thought that his robe’s protections and recovered their power. Then he realised that someone had turned the stone ground to mud. Before he could stand up, the mud turned back to stone, capturing his wand and both legs.

A curse from Ahmed told him that his bodyguard was in a similar situation. He turned his head to check, just in time to see the man, both feet stuck in the ground, get bisected with a Cutting Curse. His bodyguard’s blood hit him in the face. He turned to the Marid he had freed from his bottle. The genie would be able to save him!

He opened his mouth to order the Marid to get him out, but he couldn’t speak.

“Master? Don’t you have any orders? This looks quite dangerous, are you certain that you want to handle this by yourself?” The genie was laughing openly now, enjoying Abdul’s peril. He would pay for that dearly!

Then a stunner hit him, and Abdul couldn’t think no more.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore glanced at the blue-skinned genie hovering in the middle of the room. Without orders the creature shouldn’t attack him. Unless he gave it an opening. He didn’t intend to.

He was still wearing the form of the boasting wizard who had fallen for his trap; the Polyjuice would last another ten minutes. Using himself as bait had worked better than he had expected - the idiot, Kasim was his name, had walked straight into his ambush. The old wizard glanced at the remains of the Ottoman. Kasim, wearing Aberforth’s disguised form, had died an ugly death; those thugs had been throwing very dark curses around. At least Aberforth wouldn’t have to fear that he’d be identified; there wasn’t much left that looked like him. And it wasn’t as if the thug hadn’t deserved it - Aberforth suspected he wouldn’t have been the first foreigner Kasim had made disappear in the city, and that usually the victims were quite younger and prettier.

He turned the stone holding Abdul captive in mud again and levitated the man up. The Marid hadn’t moved, but hadn’t left either. “How long are you bound to him?”

“Until I do him a service.”

“And if he dies before he can give you an order?” Aberforth asked.

“Then I’m free.”

Aberforth nodded. That would do. He ended the other spells he had cast, vanishing the spikes that had killed so many, then opened the door. Trailing the stunned Abdul behind, he ran to the main room, then past the bar, shouting: “The captive escaped! I need to get him to a healer!” The resulting chaos allowed him to reach the door.

The Marid was still behind him when Aberforth reached the border of the anti-apparition wards and apparated to a safe house he had prepared in the countryside.

*****

Hermione Granger started at the pages she had just read and fought not to shiver. This spell… she looked up. Dumbledore was watching her with a concerned expression.

“Did anyone ever use this spell?” If someone had… It was one thing to consider the effects of a spell, but to see how it was created, how it worked… she felt more than slightly ill.

“I do not know,” the Headmaster answered. “I fear I will only know the answer when both Grindelwald and myself have passed on.”

“This was… Grindelwald’s spell?” Hermione gasped. A lot of what she had read about the man now made more sense. If he had used such spells in his war…

“He created it, though not alone. But I think even he might have balked at paying the price for such magic. He certainly didn’t use it against me when we fought.”

Hermione nodded. And if Grindelwald hadn’t used that spell when facing the Headmaster, on the brink of defeat, then it was not likely he had used it before, when he had been winning handily.

“I trust you will not try to cast the spell either, Miss Granger. The price is too high. Harry would certainly agree with me.” His expression was colder than any Hermione had ever seen on the Headmaster’s face before. “This is just an example, to help you find a solution to deal with… your problem.”

She swallowed, then nodded. “Of course.” Although Dumbledore was not correct - the spell would do what she needed it to. It would destroy a soul. Not unlike a dementor’s kiss, which the Ministry used all the time. All she had to do was to figure out how to adapt it into a ritual and how to avoid paying the price the magic demanded. Make it… safer. Less dark.

And she had an inkling of an idea already.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore sent his last strand of memories from Abdul’s interrogation into a vial, stoppered it and put it into the box he had prepared. The man had not only confirmed that he had been hired by the Dark Lord to attack Harry Potter and the wedding, but that he had also been the one responsible for organizing the assassination attempt by that genie in the last task of the Triwizard Tournament, over a year ago. And had been involved in dozens of slave raids over the years. Dozens of children and young witches taken from their families, sold as if they were pets.

Picking up the box, he shrank it and then tied it to the leg of the post owl waiting on the table. Albus would get the box in a few days. Just in case his rescue of Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova didn’t go as planned - he couldn’t think of anything but death that would keep him from trying until he succeeded. He had added the information about the girl’s kidnapping as well, even though he was quite certain that should he fail and die, then Albus would not lift a finger, much less a wand to save the girl himself.

The girl was known as ‘Nadiye Baykara’, and had been returned to the harem of Rasim Baykara, the second son of a minor member of the Sultan’s court. It wouldn’t have been that hard to break into the harem and save the girl - if not for the fact that Abdul had hired wands to do exactly that a few weeks ago. Baykara would have certainly improved his wards as a consequence. Probably his guards as well.

Aberforth closed his eyes and remembered Lea’s rescue. And Neola’s death. And the deaths of Sasha and many of his wands. But that had been the harem of a high-ranking wizard of the Sublime Porte, with dozens of guards and genies. Baykara’s wouldn’t be protected like that. And Nadya would be alone there.

The old wizard shook his head. Contrary to the fantasies of most British wizards, Ottoman wizards didn’t generally have harems filled with a dozen or more wives and concubines. Not since the ‘acquisition’ of muggle girls had been outlawed when the Statute of Secrecy had been implemented 300 years ago. The vast majority of the Ottomans had one wife, though her private rooms were still called a harem - it was apparently a matter of status. Muggles had haremliks, private areas for the whole family, but wizards had harems, women’s quarters.

He thought of tracking down the wands Abdul had hired to kidnap Nadya and finding out how they had gained entry, then decided against it. It would only tell him what method not to use, and that was not worth the effort needed to find a bunch of criminals in Constantinople. And to persuade them to share their knowledge.

He’d find a way himself. He wasn’t his brother, but it took more than a simple ward to stop him. Especially if a girl’s life and freedom was at stake.

But first there was the matter of Abdul’s continued existence. Something Aberforth had to rectify. He raised his wand at the bound captive. The effect of the Veritaserum had ended, and the man was struggling frantically against the bindings that held him. Aberforth ignored it.

“Reducto.”

*****

Harry Potter ducked beneath a red spell - hopefully a stunner - and raised a stone wall to hip-height with flick of his wand, right in time to block a series of spells. The stone started to crack almost at once, and Harry cursed. They were pushing him too hard, boxing him in. He was limping already, and his entire left side felt like someone had taken a beater’s bat and tenderized his flesh there. Another flick of his wand placed a second wall right behind the first, and a flick filled the area with thick smoke. Now all he had to do was to…

A blast above him interrupted his thoughts as he was slammed headfirst into the ground. Before he could recover, much less even think at treating himself, what felt like half a dozen Stinging Hexes hit him.

“Bang! You’re dead,” Sirius announced from behind him.

Harry groaned in response.

Ron floated a vial with a pain-relief potion over to him. Harry drank it, closing his eyes when his headache disappeared and his side stopped stinging. “Thanks Ron.”

“Anytime, mate.”

Harry stood up, stretching, then walked slowly over to where Ron was sitting on a low bench, a box of snacks and refreshments between his legs, next to Hermione. Harry’s girlfriend was shaking her head and pursing her lips, as if it was Harry’s fault that Sirius and Remus were going overboard with their training. Granted, this ‘enhanced regime’ was a direct result of the attacks in Bulgaria, but that hadn’t been his fault either.

“You’re up, Hermione,” Remus said while Sirius repaired and cleared the dueling area. The young witch stood up with a huff, but when Harry moved to hug her, she kissed him. Until Sirius sent a Stinging Hex at her backside and she jumped out of his arms with a yelp.

“Stop wasting time! You need this training! You can snog afterwards!” The dark-haired wizard impatiently tapped his wand against his thigh.

“Sirius calling snogging a waste of time… did anyone check him for Polyjuice or a Confundus Spell?” Harry asked while glaring at his godfather.

“Hey now! I didn’t say that!” the older wizard protested, while Remus and Hermione laughed.

“Well, yeah, you just did,” Ron said, triggering more laughter, though Hermione’s sounded a bit forced to Harry. With good cause - a second later she had to dodge Sirius’s first spell. Her shield stopped Remus’s spell, and an instant later, walls started to rise all around the witch.

“She’s good at that,” Ron said, “but defending yourself won’t let you win, at best you can avoid losing.”

“That’s something already,” Harry countered, watching as his girlfriend did her best to fight the two adult wizards in the room.

“Even that requires either an easily bored or exhausted enemy, or allies to come to the rescue. Lacking both, Hermione won’t last too long.” Ron shook his head as Hermione’s walls were crumbling faster than she could throw up new ones.

Harry wanted to disagree, but he knew Ron was correct. “She hasn’t attacked them yet. I wonder…”

Right then, both Remus and Sirius were suddenly faced with a swarm of beetles rushing them. For a moment, both disappeared in a buzzing cloud of insects, then both swarms disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“Silent finites… we need to get the hang of that,” Ron commented.

“We will. Just need more training.” Harry was determined to train harder. Lives were at stake, as the attacks in Bulgaria had once again proven.

“Speaking of, will we continue the Self-Defense Club?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t we?” Harry asked, puzzled.

“Ah. There weren’t many 6th year in the club last year, were they?”

“No, I thought they would…” Harry rolled his eyes as he trailed off. “Really?”

“Well… I guess a number of witches and wizards will use the opportunity to flirt more.” Ron shrugged.

Harry rolled his eyes, then was distracted by a scream from Hermione. He had his wand out, ready to hex, before he realised she had just been hit with Stinging Hexes as well. “Like Parkinson.”

“Hey! That’s a low blow!” Ron pouted, which lifted Harry’s spirit some while he dug out a Pain-relief potion for Hermione.

Hermione staggered more than she walked towards them, and he was up and at her side in a heartbeat, steadying her. “Should have waited for the potion before standing up,” he whispered, handing it to her.

She scoffed in return, but drank the potion. He could feel her relax.

“They’re really pushing us.” He knew it was hardest on Hermione - due to her research for Dumbledore, she hadn’t had as many lessons and training sessions in defense as he and Ron.

“But we’re learning a lot,” Hermione countered. “Even if it’s a painful way to learn.” She glared at Sirius and Remus, who were about to join them and Ron for a break.

Both wizards shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “As long as a potion fixes it, it’s ok,” Sirius stated.

“Technically, that includes Skele-Gro,” Hermione said.

Harry winced - he had had to take such a potion once, after a particularly nasty Quidditch accident. Matron Pomfrey had claimed his shoulder bone had been ‘pulverized’, and had to be vanished to replace it.

“Well, you know what I mean,” Sirius said, summoning a snack and a bottle of butterbeer for himself.

“At least we’re getting better,” Ron said. “And if we’re together you’ll have a much harder time beating us.”

“We’ll see. You don’t think we’d face you while outnumbered when the goal of this exercise is to teach you how to fight while outnumbered, do you?” Sirius smirked, and Remus smiled widely.

Harry had a bad feeling about that. He was proven right when Sirius called his girlfriends to help out.

*****

“As you can see, this ring glows when poison is nearby.”

“I see. How much do you value it at?”

Aberforth, disguised as a Persian merchant, smiled pleasantly while he talked with Rasim Baykara about selling a few of the trinkets Abdul had carried on him. Arranging the meeting had taken a bit of an effort, but Arkan had known the right person to give him a recommendation. The Ottoman was both polite and witty. If Aberforth hadn’t know he was a slave owner, he might even have been fooled into thinking of him as a nice person.

Ironically, it had been Abdul’s actions that likely were the reasons for Baykara’s new interest in protective items. If Nadya hadn’t been kidnapped a few weeks ago, then the Ottoman wizard wouldn’t feel threatened and vulnerable. And so there he was, chatting with the wizard in the very house he needed to sneak into.

It was a bit bigger than Aberforth had expected, but so far, he hadn’t seen too many expansion charms being used. He hoped that this would also be the case in the harem - searching through a maze of expanded rooms would be a pain. The house was also better protected than he had expected - those wards were new, and strong. Not impossible for him to beat, but the time that would have taken would have been enough for help to arrive.

Not that it mattered now, that he had been invited inside, if under guard. But that had been expected as well.

After an hour of haggling, Aberforth had sold a ring and a necklace, and a Confundus Spell followed by disillusioning himself had convinced the guards that he had left the premises. Now all he had to do was waiting until late at night, when everyone but a few guards would be sleeping.

He spent the time on the roof. It would have been pleasant, relaxing even, if not for the memories of Lea and Neola, and his fatal mistake. If only he hadn’t underestimated those guards, or those genies! If he had been a bit faster, a bit more ruthless… if he had found their wands, or replacements, so they could have defended themselves…

If, if, if… he knew what Albus would say, the hypocrite. ‘Do not dwell on past mistakes, past the need to learn from them.’ Even though Aberforth knew Albus would take his guilt for the death of their sister to his grave.

He managed to distract himself from his wandering morbid thoughts by trying to remember his astronomy lessons, and matching the sky above him with the constellations he still knew. Which weren’t many - he had barely touched that subject since he had graduated.

Finally it was time - the last light had gone out an hour ago. He stood up, wincing at the painful reminder from his body that he should not spend too much time in uncomfortable positions, and snuck downstairs, to look for the harem.

The inner courtyard was patrolled by a guard - sleepy and sloppy, from what Aberforth could tell. The man didn’t even look up. It was no problem at all to reach the selamlik where he had met Rasim Baykara. To reach the private quarters though was a bit more difficult, with the entrance guarded by a genie. Once again though a Confundus Charm helped - the guard didn’t notice how the door opened right behind him.

As expected the girl wasn’t sleeping in the ‘harem’, but in the bedroom of Rasim himself. Aberforth smiled as he slowly opened the door to the chamber, and saw Baykara and Nadya lying on the bed, fast asleep. The crib in the corner though…

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. If Nadya was a mother, then this complicated things immensely. A Silencing Charm would let the baby sleep no matter how loud the room might get. A Sticking Charm would keep the the child - less than one year old, he guessed - safely inside the crib, but he thought that would be going a bit too far. But a privacy spell to keep anyone outside from hearing them inside would not go amiss.

He didn’t bother with the Silencing Charm for Rasim, he simply sent half a dozen stunners at him, just in case his bedclothes were enchanted as well. It turned out they hadn’t been. The Ottoman would be feeling that in the morning - unless it turned out he had abused the girl. The he wouldn’t ever wake up again.

Then he tapped the girl’s nose with his wand, waking her with a weak Stinging Hex. Nadya’s eyes shot open and she yelled, ready to jump out of the bed - until she spotted the wand aimed at her, and froze.

Aberforth spoke quickly: “I’m a friend. Neither the wizard nor the baby are hurt. I’m here for your father, to rescue you.”

“What? Who?” The witch blinked.

“Your father, Bogdan Lyubenov Stoyanov. Your name is Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova.”

“My name is Nadiye Baykara!” the witch shouted, and grabbed for her wand. Before she could get a grip on it though Aberforth had summoned it.

“That was the name given to you by your kidnappers. The ones who murdered your mother when she tried to protect you.” Aberforth saw that his words made the girl gasp - what ‘orphan’ had not wondered about her parents? - but she controlled herself quickly and ground her teeth.

“That is my name, given to me when I married Risam!” She reached out and shook the man.

“He’ll not wake up anytime soon,” Aberforth said.

“What did you do to him?”

He hated hearing the concern for the slaver in her voice. “I stunned him. You were kidnapped and enslaved as a child.”

“I was an orphan.”

“You were not. You were stolen from your father.” The slavers must have obliviated the girl, for her to cling to that lie so stubbornly. Aberforth was almost glad her father would never know this. If that had been done to Lea and Neola… He pulled out a picture showing her mother, father, and herself. “Look at this! It’s your real family!”

She glanced at it, then pushed it back. “I don’t know these people.” She hadn’t called for help yet - she was smart enough to realise that if her shouting earlier had not brought help, more shouting wouldn’t achieve that either. “You’re just trying to kidnap me! Like those men before.”

“They kidnapped you to force your father to work for them.” Aberforth was tempted to stun the girl, and take her with him. But the baby complicated this. “He died so he wouldn’t have to betray either his country or you.”

She stared at him, as if she couldn’t understand him. “If my parents are dead, what do you want?”

“I promised your father I’d rescue you, and bring you home.” To betray a dying man…

“I don’t need to be rescued, this is my family, and my home!” She stood up, a thin shift wrapping itself around her to preserve her modesty. “Even if your story was true, why should I give up my family for a country I don’t even remember? For a family that doesn’t exist anymore?”

“You were kidnapped, and obliviated! Your life here is a lie.” Any minute could a guard pass through, checking up on the couple.

“It is not a lie! I grew up here. I married. I have a child.” She was so close now, staring straight into his eyes, that she was pushing her chest against the tip of his wand.

He wanted to tell her it was a lie - but in a sick way, she was correct. The slavers only had to obliviate her once, to wipe out the memories for her prior life, and she’d make her new memories herself. Had done so. And yet it was all based on a crime. On murder and kidnapping.

“If you drag me with you, then you’re just a kidnapper. Like the others!” She crossed her arms under her breasts and lifted her chin.

“I’m not like them! I’m no hired wand working for the highest bidder!” He clenched and unclenched his left hand while he gripped his wand so strongly, the knuckles on his right hand were almost white from the strain. The urge to simply stun this silly girl for her own good was overwhelming.

“You still want to take me away from my home, my family. Destroy my life.” She had tears in her eyes, though he had known witches who could fake those on command.

“We will take the baby with us,” Aberforth spit out. As if he’d leave the child here!

“And deprive him of his father? And Risam of his family?” Nadya shook her head violently. “I’d rather die!”

He had his wand pointed at her, ready to end the insane argument, when suddenly, he saw Neola in her place, standing tall and proud all those years ago, as she told that slaver the same, right before she was struck down. And he just knew he couldn’t take her with him. Even if leaving her here was wrong. Even if he had promised her father. He wasn’t Albus, who’d sacrifice lives for his ideals.

He held out the picture again. “Please take this at least. They’re your parents. You can show them to your son.” After a second, he added: “And to your husband.”

She took the picture hesitantly, as if she feared it might whisk her away, before she nodded.

Sighing, and feeling far older than he was, he said: “And if you ever want or need to flee the country, send an owl to Aberforth Dumbledore.”

“Dumble…” She stared at him, shocked into silence.

He disillusioned himself and was gone before she could recover, dropping her wand on the shelf next to the door.

*****


	49. Chasing Umbridge

**Chapter 49: Chasing Umbridge**

“The Ottoman bastard who was behind the attacks on Potter won’t be helping the Dark Lord anymore. But you already know that since I sent you the memories.”

Aberforth Dumbledore leaned back in his conjured seat, facing his brother’s desk. He felt like he was reporting to a superior, or a teacher - he was actually! - and he hated it.

“I see. What happened to Nadya Bogdanova Lyubenova?” His brother’s voice was, as usual, mild.

“She didn’t need to be rescued,” Aberforth stated in a flat voice, glaring at the older wizard so he understood that this was not something he wanted to talk about.

“They killed her then. A tragedy.” His brother sighed, and Aberforth felt the urge to hex him for this display of fake remorse and compassion. For the girl, and for himself.

“No. She didn’t want to be rescued,” he spat.

“Ah.”

He waited for his brother to go on. Say something sanctimonious he could blow up at. The phoenix trilled, and swooped over to drop one of those awful confections in his lap. He glared at the bird, then at his brother, who had not even the hint of a smile on his face. His brother still didn’t comment. After about a minute, Aberforth said: “She had a child.”

“She was not under a spell then.”

Finally! He scoffed. “Of course not. I checked.”

“And she had no family to return to.”

Of course Albus’d know that. Looked into it, probably, as if he’d care about an individual instead about his principles. “No. And she didn’t want to leave her husband.”

“Was she a slave?”

“She was kidnapped as a child. They took her memories, made her think she was an orphan.” Aberforth ground his teeth. The girl had been a slave, even if she didn’t know it, or didn’t want to know it. Sold like cattle to her husband.

Albus nodded, his face dripping with understanding. If only he’d show some condescension!

“Knowing about her origin, she might yet decide to leave.”

Aberforth scoffed. “She’ll deny it and stay with her ‘husband’.”

“Which is her decision to take.” Albus summoned a bottle of Ogden's Finest and two glasses.

Aberforth held up his hand, stopping the glass from floating towards him with a bit of wandless magic. He’d not share a glass with his brother, and get consoled for once again failing to save a girl. “You know what happened in Constantinople. What has been going on in Britain in my absence?”

“We found out that Dolores Umbridge is working as a courtesan with a werewolf.” Albus said while filling one glass for himself.

“What?” Aberforth stared. That made no sense.

“Indeed. It’s quite surprising.”

“Surprising? Shocking! There has to be something else behind this.” He didn’t know that witch well, but her hatred of werewolves was deeply-rooted and widely known.

“I can only think of a few reasons for such an arrangement.” His brother took a sip from his whiskey, burping fire. “None of them good.”

“A plot from the Dark Lord then.”

“I do not think we can afford to dismiss that possibility.”

“And my friends will be involved in tracking them down.” Mathilda, to be precise. The courtesan knew those two Aurors well, and was a bit too brave for her own good. And she’d not listen to him if he tried to keep her safe.

Albus nodded, taking another sip.

“What about the Dark Lord?”

“He has not often sent his wands into battle since the attack on the Express, and never in big groups.”

“He’s up to something then, and I bet it’s not just rebuilding his forces.”

“Quite likely.”

Aberforth was certain Albus knew more than he was revealing, but he couldn’t think of a way to make his brother spill that information. Two could play that game. He stood up. “I have to check with my friends.”

Albus had an unreadable expression when he nodded, and Aberforth fought the urge to check if his brother was watching him when he flooed to his inn.

*****

Albus Dumbledore sighed after his brother had vanished through his fireplace. He had hoped Aberforth would be able to come to terms with his past regrets in Constantinople, but it seemed that this had not come to be. On the contrary - his younger brother might even feel more guilty now, having failed to save another witch.

If one could call it a failure. Certainly, the Ottomans’ cavalier attitude towards and unofficial tolerance for slavery was despicable, but it wasn’t as if there were no kidnappings in Britain. The things that happened in Knockturn Alley… or the treatment of werewolves.

After filling his glass again, he raised it towards his oldest companion and closest friend. “To a better future, Fawkes!”

The phoenix trilled, and started for his bowl of lemon drops. Albus let him, which prompted Fawkes to chirp at him, and offer one drop to the Headmaster. Smiling slightly, he took it. The affair with Miss Caldwell occupied his mind, more than it should probably, given the approaching full moon, and the upcoming start of the next school year. If only he could send Remus to sound out the werewolves, but that would expose his professor’s secret, and ruin his life.

Putting his empty glass down, and absentmindedly petting Fawkes, he considered his options. Since it was very likely that Tom would attempt his ritual again during the next full moon, Albus could attempt to use Legilimency, and read Harry’s mind while he was experiencing the vision. That should allow him to apparate to the location - the Dark Lord hadn’t had Anti-Apparition Jinxes up the last time - and even a minor spell would disturb the ritual. And as he knew from Harry’s vision, that would cause a deadly backlash.

It was a very tempting course of action. No one but Albus himself would be at risk, and if he succeeded then the Dark Lord’s body would be destroyed, the war would quickly end without Voldemort directing his forces, and Miss Granger and himself would have ample time to find a way to deal with the horcruxes before Tom could manage to return from wherever his spirit went afterwards. Even if Albus died with Tom, he could leave a note for Saul, who would take his place and help Miss Granger finish her work.

And yet the risks were too big. Albus would have to prevent Tom from apparating away, as the Dark Lord had done the last time his ritual had went awry. And since it was very likely that he’d face both Tom and Bellatrix, this would be very difficult. Not impossible though - a powerful Blasting Curse could likely hit them both. It wouldn’t hurt them much, if at all, though, given their experience, and he’d have to cast both an Anti-Apparition Jinx and an Anti-Portkey Jinx to trap the Dark Lord there. And if he did that, he’d be trapped there as well.

That was a sacrifice Albus would be willing to make. He was old, and he wasn’t getting any younger. And while it was theoretically possible that Tom might be able to dispel one of the jinxes quickly enough to trigger a portkey, or have Bellatrix apparate them away, it was not very likely.

But what if the Dark Lord had taken precautions? Maybe he had a trusted confidante ready with another ritual to revive himself. Albus’s sacrifice would have been for naught, and Britain would be left without him to counter the Dark Lord. Theoretically, the Ministry could muster enough skilled wizards to defeat Voldemort. Even a wizard as powerful as Voldemort - or Albus - could be taken down with enough wands. But such a force would, like Albus currently, have to be held in reserve, able to counter the Dark Lord’s appearance. Those dozens of wizards and witches would not be available to face the rank and file of Voldemort’s Death Eaters. All the Dark Lord would have to do to win was wait, recruit more, and let his wands gradually grind the Aurors and Hit-Wizards down while keeping the bulk of them chasing him.

But even that wasn’t the worst possibility. If Voldemort noticed his presence in Harry’s mind, he’d know about the connection to the boy. As cunning as Tom was, he’d bolt, abandoning the ritual, and alter his plans. Albus would have lost his best source of information, and Harry would be in great danger.

No, as tempting as this decapitation strike was, Albus couldn’t do it. It was simply too dangerous.

He’d have to find another way to atone for his sins.

*****

“That looks rather simple.”

Hermione Granger turned her head and frowned at her boyfriend, who was looking over her shoulder at her computer’s screen.

Harry didn’t seem to notice. “Not the kind of formula I’d expect from your secret work.”

Hermione reflexively checked if the privacy spells protecting their room in No. 12, Grimmauld Place were still working, even though she had checked them before she had started her arithmantic calculations. Relaxing slightly, she addressed the wizard. “It is meant to be. This is a formula to adapt a simple spell into a simple ritual so I can test my program. That way I’ll be able to test my optimization methods before running the real formula.”

“Couldn’t you do that with the actual formula, for more precise results?” Harry sat down on the desk, facing her.

She bit her lower lip. Harry wasn’t as skilled in arithmancy as herself, and he didn’t exactly know what the Headmaster had her working on, but he was not stupid. Before she could think of an explanation, he frowned.

“You can’t do that because the spell is too dangerous to test the improvements the usual way, right?”

She nodded slowly. When she heard him mutter a curse she looked away.

“There has to be another way. A better spell, ritual.”

The young witch shook her head. “We haven’t found a better spell. And time’s running short. Each full moon, Voldemort is making progress.”

“We still don’t know what he’s doing.” Harry’s tone turned it into a question.

“No,” she answered, hiding her annoyance. Did he really think think she’d keep this from him if she knew?

Her face must have betrayed her reaction, since her boyfriend sighed. “Sorry. I just… I hate this.”

Hermione didn’t have to be told what he meant with ‘this’. She knew he hated that she was taking risks for him. Just as she hated it when he was in danger. She stood up, and moved in front of him still sitting on her desk. “I hate it as well, but we don’t have a choice.”

“I wish I knew what you are doing with the Headmaster.” He wrapped his arms around her.

She rested her chin on his shoulder, and whispered: “No, you don’t.”

She hoped he’d think that she meant the risk of Voldemort finding out through him.

*****

Mathilda Miller moved through the main room of the ‘Milarin’ with a grace born from both talent and training, her robe - a network of thin stripes of fabric wound tight around her - attracting a fair amount of attention. The private club had more customers than she would have expected, given the war that was going on. It was too high-priced to appeal to the rank and file of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards who might die any day, and would be living it up each chance they got, and she would have thought that the kind of customers it was courting would be more inclined to stay safe behind the wards of their manors, than risk coming to Diagon Alley.

Then she saw the two dancers on the stage, and understood. Veela. Courtesan trained ones even - rare outside Paris. The owner of the club had to have spent a fortune to persuade them to perform in Britain in these troubled times. That would attract a lot of the kind of wizards Umbridge and Caldwell were aiming for - and only a few of them would be able to hire the Veela. So, a prime hunting ground for the two suspects.

Since one of them was a werewolf, that probably wasn’t the best wording, she admitted to herself.

Mathilda slowly walked to the bar, where she ordered a glass of champagne and studied the audience. No sign so far of either Umbridge or Caldwell, but there was Fickleton, staring at the stage as if he had been entranced.

Wizards. Mathilda masked her cynical snort by taking a sip from her drink. Though, truth to be told, not every wizard was like that. Just most, as her teacher in Paris used to say. Watching the Wizengamot member absentmindedly drinking from his own glass, she considered approaching him, but decided against it. He had a reputation of being a tad rough with his playthings, and she’d rather not find out that he was now a werewolf by discovering he had left permanent scars on her.

Leaning against the bar and letting her gaze wander, she caught the eyes of a younger wizard roaming over her body. She smiled at him while she checked him out. Expensive robe, though a bit too flashy. Young, a few years out of Hogwarts at most. Rich enough to visit the club, which meant he wouldn’t be emancipated. Beholden to his Head of Family, which meant he was from an Old Family. Not rich enough to have a chance with the Veela, and smart enough to realise it. An easy mark, then. But for the fact that he was still sitting alone. Mathilda didn’t think that her fellow courtesans would miss such an opportunity, so he was either choosy, or there was something else going on.

She downed the rest of her champagne and started to walk towards his table. Finding out what exactly was going on would be a good way to pass the time. And if she needed to go further to keep her cover… the wizard looked quite handsome.

“Hello, sir. Are you looking for some company?” She smiled, going through the motions - he hadn’t left her out of his eyes ever since she had noticed him.

“I am,” he said, with a faint hint of a foreign accent. Balkan. He motioned to the seat next to him. “Pavlos,” he introduced himself.

“Marie,” she answered, using her fake Parisian accent and alias while she sat down with a smile. Up close she could see his robe was brand new, and he had an interesting scar on his collarbone. The accent and the new robe pointed at a wand for hire who had struck it rich. Greek, or Macedonian. But those rogues usually were far more forward. She’d have expected him to pat his lap. And after Aberforth’s efforts, most of the Macedonians and other Greeks were working for…

She had to fight the urge to curse when the knut dropped. Still smiling, she leaned forward, cast a privacy spell, and whispered: “How much were you paid to watch over me?”

The young man blushed and tried to mask his surprise with a cough. He rallied quickly though. “I wouldn’t charge to protect a beauty like you.”

“Really?” she said, letting her fingers trail over his robe. Theoretically, he could have bought the robe with his own gold, to wear. She heard him hiss when she reached his lap, and withdrew her hand.

He nodded, wetting his lips. “Really.”

She slid a bit closer, until their thighs touched. He was handsome, if a bit young. “Are you aware of the reasons for mine, and therefore your presence here?”

“You’re looking for two dangerous witches. Cursed ones.” He grinned. “I have hunted their kind before. I will not let them touch you.”

She almost sighed. Aberforth was getting a bit too protective in his old age. At least he hadn’t come in person, and had picked a charming bodyguard. Though that he hadn’t bothered to inform her did not sit that well with Mathilda. Leaning forward, and letting her robe grow a bit looser, revealing more, she asked: “And what are your orders in case they do not appear?”

“I’m not to let you out of my sight.” Other wizards of his age would have been nervous now. Pavlos wasn’t. The difference, she guessed, between a young wizard with a generous appanage from his head of family and no real experience, and a young wand for hire.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick wasn’t happy. At all. He should be, posing as a young and rich fool, out for a good time in an expensive club, with all expenses paid for by the Ministry. And he was surrounded by pretty witches who were flirting with him.

But they were only acting so nicely because they wanted him to hire them. He wasn’t attractive, his purse was. That alone wouldn’t have been enough to dampen his mood much, though. A pretty girl was a pretty girl, after all, especially if someone else was picking up the tab.

No, what was ruining his mood was the fact that his partner was undercover as well, in a different private club, posing as one of those witches currently surrounding him. You didn’t split from your partner, every rookie learned that at the academy! If anything happened, he wouldn’t be able to help Bertha.

If only she had gone as a guest instead of a courtesan! Witches frequented those clubs too, after all. But she had claimed that while she had had training as a courtesan, she hadn’t any experience posing as one of the rich witches looking for paid company. He didn’t like that, not at all, even if it made some sort of sense. His partner, wearing that very revealing robe she had picked, flirting… If one of those old rich wizards made a move on her, and she couldn’t refuse him without blowing her cover and endangering herself...

Merlin’s balls, he was jealous! He almost dropped his glass. Jealous of whoever flirted with his partner while she was undercover! What was wrong with him? He knew such flirting wouldn’t mean a thing. Not to Bertha. She was the most professional witch he knew. Professional Auror, that is. Not the other kind. Even if she had loosened up a bit in the last year.

He turned to the bartender, a gorgeous blonde witch in a robe that barely covered her curves, and ordered another whiskey. He was on a mission, on a hunt. He had no time to deal with this… discovery. And yet he barely managed to nod and smile at the redhead pawing at him, and keep an eye on the most recent arrivals.

Bertha Limmington. Brilliant, but not the most personal witch. More fond of books than people. A typical Ravenclaw. Top Auror. Like him. But very much not like him. By the book. Pretty. Beautiful even. A brilliant mind, and deadly with her wand. The best partner he could wish for. And she had a well-hidden, but keen sense of humour. And she could flirt, if she wanted. The way she walked, in that skimpy robe….

When the redhead tried to slip her hand inside his robe, he realised that she had taken his smile as an invitation. He hadn’t even realised just how he had been smiling! He covered his lapse by paying for her next drink and tried to focus on his task again.

Merlin, he was in love with his partner!

Right then, the ring on his left hand grew warm - the agreed-upon signal that Bertha had spotted Umbridge and Caldwell. He made his excuses, citing a family emergency, not caring if it sounded convincing, tipped the redhead generously, and left the club. He had two suspects to catch, and a partner to catch up with.

*****

Kenneth stepped out of the Floo connection in ‘The Nightingale’, nodding at the two bouncers. They looked him over, checking if his robe matched the club’s price range, but didn’t look like they were expecting trouble - anyone arriving by Floo had gone through the Thief’s Downfall at Floo Central, after all. Anyone entering from the street though would have to endure a lot more scrutiny.

Entering the main room, Kenneth spotted his partner at once. Bertha was leaning against the bar, crowded by a pair of young wizards with more gold than taste judging by their robes. At least they weren’t pawing her. He walked over to them, maybe a tiny bit faster than usual. He wanted to simply push the two idiots away, maybe hex them a bit if they didn’t get the message, but that would cause too much trouble, and endanger their mission. And Bertha would be furious.

Instead he beamed at her and ignored the two men. “Darling, there you are! I was held up at work, please forgive me.”

The witch smiled widely at him, and part of him hoped that it wasn’t just an act. “Of course!”

The two boys apparently didn’t understand that they should leave. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned work - some of the rich thought anyone who actually worked was not rich enough to matter. But one of them faced him. “Hey! We saw her first!”

“Yes!” The other, more than a bit drunk, nodded emphatically.

“Get lost. She’s mine!” Kenneth growled at them and slipped his left arm around Bertha’s waist. The witch leaned into him, but her right hand pinched his side. He ignored that while he stared at the impertinent boy until the idiot’s sense of self-preservation finally started working and he turned to leave, pulling his drunk friend with him. The bouncer that had started to walk towards them returned to his position at the wall again.

Kenneth smiled at his partner, not releasing her waist. “Shall we get a table, darling?” They could cast a privacy charm at the bar as well, but it might catch some unneeded attention. Most people didn’t talk about anything at the bar that actually required such secrecy.

Bertha nodded. “Good idea, honey.”

He kept his arm around her while they walked over to the next free table, but once inside the privacy spell’s effect, she pulled away. She did sit down next to him, at least, though he didn’t know why she seemed amused.

“I didn’t spot Umbridge or Caldwell.” He was pretty certain he’d not have missed them.

“They’re at that table there,” Bertha said, indicating a table under a privacy spell in the centre of the room. “With Simon Bragglin. Or someone polyjuiced as him.”

Ah, that was his partner, always precise, always covering all the bases. “I think we can discount that possibility.” Bragglin, one of the middle-aged Wizengamot members, would have arrived by Floo as well.

“Theoretically, you could drink Polyjuice right when entering the Floo, and exit under its effects,” Bertha said.

“Has that ever been tried?” Kenneth didn’t think such an exploit would have been overlooked.

“Modern Floos are too quick for that too work, but if you set up a slower connection, it would be theoretically possible.”

“If they can set up a slower connection to their target, they probably don’t need to use Polyjuice to infiltrate that location.” Kenneth chuckled. “Now, how do we do this? Arresting them in the middle of the main room?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “The risk of bystanders getting hurt is too big.”

“Especially since a lot of those bystanders would be rich and influential,” Kenneth added cynically.

“Like Bragglin. You could do without another reprimand.”

“I haven’t gotten a reprimand in ages,” Kenneth answered. “Besides, we’re at war - regulations and stuff are not quite as tight.” Which wasn’t always a good thing. A number of Aurors might cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed, secure in the knowledge that as long as results were delivered, no one would be asking them any questions.

Judging by Bertha’s frown, she was all too aware of that as well. “I still do not recommend it. It would be best if they took a private room.”

Kenneth agreed. “The owner won’t make much of a fuss if we raid a private room, as long as we’re discreet. And they’d be trapped in there.”

“But if they don’t take a private room here, we’ll be forced to stop them before they reach the Floo connection or the door.” Bertha sighed, which did interesting things to her barely-covered chest.

Kenneth was staring, then caught himself. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to have noticed, or didn’t seem to mind. “We could herd them to the door, and have an ambush outside. If we’re at the floo, that shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Yes.” Bertha pulled out an enchanted mirror from an invisible pocket in her robe. “I’ll go to the bathroom and contact the boss.”

“Aren’t the bathrooms under privacy spells as well?” Those would foil communication mirrors, like any other means of eavesdropping.

“Only the stalls.”

“Ah. I’ll get us more drinks.” At her raised eyebrows, he added: “We have to keep up appearances.”

“Of course.” She chuckled and stood up.

As soon Bertha had left the table and the area covered by the privacy spell, Kenneth closed his eyes and leaned back. He had almost asked her to sit in his lap. But he had been afraid of her reaction. If she got angry, or thought it was a tasteless joke… he could handle that. But if she thought it was unprofessional...

He tapped his wand to the light at the table, summoning a waitress, and hoped that the next few hours or so, depending on how long the two witches were staying, wouldn’t be awkward. Or stressful. He just knew it wouldn’t be the light banter he was used to. If only he had realised that he had fallen in love with Bertha earlier, or later, and not in the middle of an undercover mission with her! And if only she’d be wearing a less distracting robe!

*****

If anyone deserved to become a werewolf, Simon Bragglin did, Dolores Umbridge thought. The man was acting like an animal already. She’d had to rearrange her robe a dozen times so far, and the werewolf had had to repair hers even. And it wasn’t as if either garment would hide much of their bodies. The man was the head of an old pureblood family - if not quite an Old Family - but he had the manners of a mudblood bastard. She had barely managed to keep herself from cursing him when he had first pulled the werewolf on his lap and had torn down her robe. Damned life debt!

When the wizard leaned over and buried his face in the exposed chest of Paige - the beast - Dolores pulled her wand and vanished the contents of her glass. She felt like drinking, but she knew she couldn’t afford to dull her mind. At least one of them had to keep her wits, and it looked like her ‘partner’ was busy enough keeping her temper. She wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the night. If only it was the full moon already!

She used her wand to order another round of drinks. At least she’d lighten the man’s purse, and with a bit of luck, he’d soon be too drunk to continue molesting them. And once the full moon had arrived, he’d pay. They’d have the whole night for their revenge.

A scantily clad waitress brought the drinks. Dolores thought she looked sympathetic. She could be wrong, but she didn’t think Bragglin restricted his behaviour to courtesans. That he wasn’t married at his age implied enough anyway.

The man separated himself from the werewolf’s chest - finally! - and leaned back in his seat, summoning his glass with a flick of his wand while Paige repaired her robe, again.

“Ah!” Burping fire, he leered at Dolores, and she had to fight to not shudder with revulsion. To think a member of the Wizengamot could sink so low…

He patted his thigh. “Come on, girl, you’ve had enough rest!”

Dolores glanced over at the werewolf, who winced behind Bragglin’s back. Umbridge ground her teeth - to be pitied by a beast! - before smiling and sliding over to to the man. “Of course!”

He’d pay. He’d pay dearly for this.

*****

Paige Caldwell felt relief. They were finally leaving ‘The Nightingale’, and Bragglin had drunk enough that he’d hopefully fall asleep quickly once they were at his manor. He wasn’t drunk enough to be unable to stand though - even though he had his arms around both her and Umbridge as they made their way to the floo. Maybe they’d have to make him drink some more at his home.

She glanced over at the other witch, behind the man’s back. Umbridge looked livid. She must have really hated getting touched by the man, Paige thought - she hadn’t been like that with the other targets. Probably something personal, even though Bragglin hadn’t acted as if he knew her, other than by name.

Paige had to admit she had been surprised by the man’s manners. He wasn’t quite as uncouth as Greyback, but he had not displayed even a trace of the sophistication she’d expect from a Wizengamot member. Maybe this was just how he treated courtesans? She had almost marked him with her fingernails when he had torn her robe open for the first time, thinking he was attacking her. If she had drawn blood, that would have been bad. It could have compromised the whole mission.

And that would have displeased the Dark Lord. She shuddered.

Bragglin must have noticed, since he asked: “Are you cold, pet?”

Paige forced a smile on her face. “A bit… someone tore my robe up.”

As expected, the man laughed. So loudly actually, that another guest and his ladyfriend frowned at the display. Once again Paige was reminded of Greyback. The werewolf leader loved to flaunt his lack of courtesy whenever he could.

They left the main room, walking to the floo behind a couple. Another rich man, and a not too experienced courtesan, or so Paige thought - she hadn’t quite the provocative gait. She didn’t look that young, so she probably was another witch fallen on hard times, and turning to this life to make ends meet. Those witches didn’t know what hard times were. Paige knew it. Knew how it was to be torn from her family, from her country, banished and left to fend for herself. And she knew how to survive, how to live, without whoring herself out.

Paige scoffed and shook her head.

“DMLE, Aurors Fenbrick and Limmington! Paige Caldwell, Dolores Umbridge, you’re under arrest!”

Paige felt as if her blood had frozen in her veins, staring at the two wands aimed at her and Umbridge. That couple was a pair of undercover Aurors! She gasped - she was a werewolf who had infected several wizards, willingly even. If she was arrested, she’d be executed!

She’d rather die fighting! She was about to draw her wand when she heard Umbridge whisper: “Imperio. Attack those Aurors!”

Bragglin drew his wand. The two Aurors were quicker, casting at him while spreading out, but their Stunning Spells were stopped by the man’s robe.

“Reducto!”

Braggin’s spell missed, but tore up the teak floor, sending splinters towards the Aurors and dust up in the air.

Paige, now with her wand in hand, felt Umbridge grab her arm. “Come, to the exit!” The witch whispered, trying to pull her with her.

The werewolf shook her head. “No, not the exit. They’ll be waiting for us.” They wouldn’t cover the Floo connection with two Aurors and leave the main entrance uncovered.

Umbridge cursed, but agreed. “Main room!”

The two ran back, into the main room. Behind them, Bragglin was casting another Blasting Curse. The man wouldn’t last long, but he had bought them enough time to put a few guests between them and any pursuit.

“Back door?” Paige asked

“They’ll be waiting there too.”

Front and back and Floo were blocked. The werewolf felt trapped, cornered. She wanted to lash out, kill those who attacked her. Charge them and rip them to shreds. Feast on their entrails! She might have lost control, if Umbridge had not pulled her towards the stairs and shaken her out of her rage.

“What can we do?”

“The roof. We’ll blast our way through the roof.” The other witch was sprinting up the stairs. Paige didn’t hear another explosion, which meant Bragglin had been stunned.

Another couple - no, two witches, one wizard - was descending the stairs. Paige roared at them, and when they didn’t part quickly enough, she banished the wizard into the next wall.

“Imperio! Go down and blow every table up!”

Paige glanced to the witch running slightly behind her. That was the second unforgivable the witch had cast, in front of witnesses. If she got arrested, it’d be Azkaban for her. For life. In for a knut, in for a galleon.

“Window!” Umbridge shouted when they reached the next floor. She looked like she was out of breath.

Paige hadn’t any problems - werewolves had great stamina. It didn’t make up for being cursed, but it could come in handy. She ran towards the window, wand out.

“Don’t cast yet!” Umbridge shouted. Paige heard explosions and screaming from below while the witch pulled out a broom from her robes and unshrunk it. “Disillusion yourself, and mount up behind me!”

Part of Paige wanted to refuse. To obey was to submit. She fought that instinct down though, and did what she was told.

“Reducto!”

The window was blown away, and the broom shot through the opening before the debris had hit the ground. They almost hit the house on the other side, but Umbridge managed to pull up in time, and then simply flew straight - away from the club, away from the alley.

And with the Aurors hunting them for what they had done, and the Dark Lord likely to hunt them for what they had failed to do, away from Wizarding Britain.

*****

“Half a dozen guests seriously wounded. One Wizengamot member hurt by Aurors. Five Wizengamot members protesting the ‘rash, reckless and unjustified action’ of the DMLE. And both suspects escaped.”

Kenneth Fenbrick, standing at attention in front of Amelia Bones’s desk, next to Bertha Limmington, winced. Bones sounded angrier than right after the attack on the Hogwarts Express. Or maybe he thought that because this time, all her anger was directed at him and his partner. At least it felt like it. “I bet those protests came from Wizengamot members who were found in ‘compromising situations’.”

He regretted his quip right away when the head of the DMLE glared at him. “Do you deny that ‘rash and reckless’ fits this mess perfectly, Auror Fenbrick?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So, can you explain how two whores who have never shown much skill with their wands, much less as duelists, managed to escape two of my most experienced Aurors and a full team of Hit-Wizards?” Bones glared at Kenneth and his partner, hands on her hips.

“Ma’am, Umbridge imperiused Bragglin to attack us. We couldn’t take him out quickly, not without hurting or even killing him, and that allowed them to flee back into the club’s main room, full of bystanders,” Kenneth said, looking past the witch. He didn’t have to mention that hurting, much less killing a member of the Wizengamot who had been put under the Imperius right in front of them would have led to a terrible reaction from the Wizengamot. If only the man hadn't been wearing the best protections gold could buy! “And when we took up pursuit, we had to deal with another imperiused victim who was attacking the guests and staff - among them a few more members of the Wizengamot, ma’am,” he added, earning him another glare.

“Ma’am, I have to point out that the operation failed because we were not rash enough. If we had simply entered with the half a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards who had secured the building, the outcome would have been far different.” Bertha met Bones’s eyes without flinching.

“The building wasn’t secured, Auror Limmington!”

“Sadly, we were not informed of that prior to the attempted arrest.”

Bones sat down in her seat, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “The Minister’s been in here already, asking for the head of the one who’s responsible for this debacle. He’s taking the escape of Umbridge very personally.”

Kenneth tensed up. If the Minister wanted a scapegoat, it’d be him or Bertha. And it had been his plan. His fault.

“We’ll blame the Hit-Wizards for not securing the building, and for neglecting to inform you of that fact. Our plan was, if not perfect, at least sound.” Bones sighed.

Kenneth was relieved. The Hit-Wizards had botched their task, after all, and they would not fire anyone in the middle of the war. Demoting them maybe, but given the losses they were still taking, they’d be back in their old rank soon enough - provided they survived.

“What about the pressure from the Wizengamot, ma’am?” Bertha asked.

Bones grinned in an almost feral way. “We’ll be moving on the suspected targets of Umbridge and Caldwell. If they turn out to be werewolves, then we’ll inform the Wizengamot. I am certain the esteemed members will reevaluate their stance on ‘rash and reckless’ arrests in private clubs once they realise that there was a werewolf infecting Wizengamot members who frequent such places.” She folded her hands and leaned back. “Something good may come out of this mess.”

Kenneth chuckled, though Bertha didn’t react other than smiling slightly. Instead she spoke up: “Will we remain in charge of this case?”

Bones shook her head. “Only as far as it concerns Caldwell and Umbridge. Others will handle the affected Wizengamot members.”

Who wouldn’t be Wizengamot members for long, Kenneth thought. He and his partner wouldn’t get off scot-free then - others and not them would make those high-profile arrests. He could live with that - whoever made those arrests would also make some enemies. Thinking of enemies… “Did the Minister claim that his affair with Umbridge was the result of her casting an Imperius?”

Bertha glared at him, and Bones rolled her eyes. “The Minister was quite vocal in his explanation that there was no affair.”

Kenneth swallowed his next remark, and Bones dismissed them.

Once out of their boss’s office, he relaxed. “That wasn’t as bad as I feared when I saw the carnage.”

“We were quite lucky. That was sloppy planning on our side,” Bertha said in a flat voice.

“Couldn’t be helped. Too much secrecy. You can’t plan well enough if your support can’t be informed until the last second, for fear of traitors and leaks.” Kenneth wasn’t happy with the situation, but he didn’t see what could be done about it as long as they were recruiting anyone who could hold a wand for the Hit-Wizards.

“We should enlist more trustworthy help in the future.”

“And where would we… really? Is that even legal?”

“Yes. Civilians can make arrests by themselves,” Bertha pulled out a scroll with the corresponding law on it.

“If no Auror is present.” Kenneth was familiar with that law himself. A kidnapper once had claimed he had mistaken his victim for a thief and arrested her. The man had died in prison when the Dark Lord had stormed Azkaban.

“In maiore minus. If they can make an arrest without an Auror, they can help an Auror make an arrest as well.”

“I’m not quite certain that this is intended, or even legal, but I’m quite certain that no one cares as long as we get results,” Kenneth stated.

He shared a cynical grin with his partner. He didn’t like her plan, and he was certain she didn’t like it either, but he didn’t see a better way to get trustworthy help than asking certain friends and acquaintances of the Dumbledores. “Veela and rogues replacing Hit-Wizards. Is that a good or a bad sign?”

“And the head of the Black family,” Bertha added.

“I already mentioned rogues, didn’t I?”

That made her laugh, which improved his own mood greatly.

*****

“What do you think of that?”

Harry Potter ran a finger over his chin as he looked his girlfriend over. She was wearing what looked like a strapless black cocktail dress that reached halfway down her thighs, under the open robe of a Hogwarts 6th and 7th year student. “Hm. I like it, but it looks a bit…”

“Muggle?” Hermione asked.

“Yes.” He held up his hand before she could say anything. “I know it’s heavily enchanted, but it doesn’t look like it.” It looked rather sexy - for muggle fashion. But for wizards, it was a tad too conservative. Especially for 6th year.

“And I can’t afford to look like I’m wearing a muggle dress.” The young witch sighed.

“We can’t afford it. No matter how much we might like understatement,” Harry corrected her. “It’s not as if I’m that happy with the robe Sirius got for me.” He glanced at the garment in question, hanging next to the armoire currently storing several other examples of wizarding fashion. If only he could simply transfigure his heavily enchanted duelling robes to look like it. But as Hermione had pointed out - one finite and people would gossip about him not having enough gold to buy new robes. So they would have to find a robe they liked, and then have it tailored, and then enchant it.

“Well… it makes you look dashing. A bit like a swashbuckler.” Hermione grinned.

“It looks like it’s painted on my legs, and the top part leaves half my chest down to my navel free.” At least there were no ruffles. Sirius had wanted some, but Harry had put his foot down. On Sirius’s.

“Mh.”

He glared at his girlfriend and flicked his wand. The neckline of her robe - or dress - plunged down to her navel.

“Harry!”

“If I have to expose my navel, then so do you!”

She hadn’t an answer ready for that, and he continued: “Add some moving cutouts, covered with glowing nets in distinct patterns, slit the thing on both sides up to the waist…”

Hermione added his proposed changes. “Hm.” She narrowed her eyes. “Still a bit… plain.”

“If you add more cutouts you might as well wear a bikini.” Harry thought she looked great in a bikini, but he wasn’t certain that was a fitting look for school. Some of the 6th years had gone down that route last year, and it hadn’t looked that well. Although that could have just been his impression - he associated such looks with the beach.

Judging by the glare Hermione sent at him she shared his sentiments, at least in part. “Nothing like that. I’m thinking of enhancing the fabric. Add subtle ornaments to it, which are only visible up close, or from the right angle.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea. Subtle, but not muggle. I think that will look good on mine as well.”

“If we manage to get it to work.”

“We will. We have two weeks left until the year starts.” And that should be more than enough to get their robes done, and enchant them. It would be better to wear transfigured duelling robes - while protection spells were not affected by the amount of fabric one was wearing, the protective qualities of the fabric itself naturally were. But walking around in them would send the wrong message, should someone dispel them

Hermione slipped out of her robe and sat down on their bed. “We’ve got other things to do though.”

“Yes. Combat training, and … your research.” Harry sat down next to her.

“Exactly.”

“How is your project going anyway?” Harry asked while rubbing her back.

“I’m still calibrating my program, sort of. I should be done this week.” She leaned into him and laid her head down on his shoulder.

“And then you can create the ritual?”

“Then I can start on the ritual. It’ll be the most complicated formula I’ve ever tried.” When she sighed, he felt her breath on his cheek.

“How long do you expect it to take?”

Another sigh. Frustrated this time. “I can’t tell.”

He decided to change the topic. “Are you looking forward to see what our friends will get up to in the Year of Discovery?”

“As long as they don’t expect us to take part.” Hermione wrapped one arm around him. “I’m not sharing you.” Her grip tightened.

“Neither am I. Sharing you, that is.”

“Good.” After a pause, she added. “Do you think Ron and Padma will stay together?”

“I’m not sure if they are together anymore. If they are… “ he shook his head, lightly, so he’d not disturb her.

“Poor Ron. He’ll be chased by lots of witches.”

“Why ‘poor Ron’?” Harry didn’t want to say it, but he more than suspected that Ron was looking forward to that. At least if he hadn’t changed his opinion since a few years ago, when he had mentioned his plans. That had been before he had hooked up with Padma though.

“Many of them will be Slytherins.” Hermione giggled, just a bit.

“Oh, right.” Harry chuckled. His best friend could always tell them no, after all.

Neither one mentioned that after the attack on the Hogwarts Express, it wasn’t certain just how many of their fellow students would be returning. They’d find out soon enough.

*****

“Ron! I need your help!”

Ron Weasley looked up from the latest issue of Quidditch Weekly, and put the scroll he had been taking notes for plays on down. “Yes, Ginny?”

“You have to tell me if some witch is making moves on Neville.” His sister stood in the door to his room, arms crossed under her breasts - when had she gone from the stick figure to curves, he asked himself - and a frown on her face.

“Don’t you trust him?” Neville was about the last wizard Ron would expect to cheat on his girlfriend.

“I trust him. I don’t trust those witches!” Ginny spat.

“You’re not planning to… do something to them?” His sister had a nasty temper, which had not improved after her first year.

Ginny didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

“Ginny… “ He sighed. And of course, just when he was the eldest Weasley at Hogwarts, and the one his parents would hold responsible. “You can’t just start hexing witches - or wizards - for asking Neville out. It’s his 6th year, people are expected to ask.”

“What if some Slytherin hits on Padma?” Ginny shot back.

Ron winced. “I don’t even know if Padma will return to Hogwarts, or stay in India, much less if we’re still a couple. She had some trouble trusting me, even before the attack.”

Ginny opened her mouth, then closed it. “I’m not like that!”

He stood up and walked over to his sister, grabbing her shoulders. “Then don’t act like that. Trust Neville.”

Ginny looked away. In a small voice, she asked: “And… what if he betrays that trust?”

“Then you can hex him and whoever is involved,” Ron stated. “And I’ll help you.” Year of Discovery, or not - all his brothers had agreed on one thing after Ron’s second year: Anyone who’d hurt their sister would pay.

Ginny slowly nodded. “Thank you.” She turned to leave, but he held her back.

“Tell you what, let’s go play some Quidditch. You, me, and the Quaffle.”

“If you get me on the team! As a starter, not as reserve.”

“If you’re good enough, you’ll be on the team,” Ron answered. She was good enough, in his educated opinion, but he’d prefer it if she was a bit better still - just to make it clear that there was no nepotism.

“I’ll show you!”

And he’d get better as well. He’d have to - the last Keeper-Captain had been Oliver Wood, who was now playing professionally. Ron knew he wasn’t the Keeper Oliver had been, but he’d try his best, and hope his plays would make up the difference.

Slytherin wouldn’t win the cup on his watch.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort put down the Daily Prophet, then stood up and started to pace. How had this happened? How had they found out? He barely noticed Bellatrix summoning the newspaper, then cursing it after reading. Two unidentified witches… he knew them of course. What had those two whores done, fighting Aurors? Just because the Ministry had tried to arrest them didn’t mean they knew about his scheme, but it was more than likely. He cursed. All that work and preparation, wasted!

“My lord?”

“Go to those two whores, and bring them to me, Bella! Alive, but I don’t care if they are in pain.

“At once, my lord! Thank you!” Her eyes lit up, and she hurriedly dressed before apparating away.

A few minutes later she returned, alone, and fell to her knees.

He spoke before she could berate herself for failing him: “So, they have fled, deducing correctly that I’ll hold them responsible for this failure.”

“Yes, my lord. The flat was empty and their possessions were gone as well.”

He hadn’t expected anything else. After such a blunder, they’d run. It confirmed their guilt, at least. Sitting down, he pondered how to react. He needed gold, but the wizards he had managed to blackmail would know that the Ministry was coming for them. They’d hurry, and would not be receptive to further pressure since the secret he had been holding over their heads was now common knowledge.

And soon they’d be beyond his reach. He had to act quickly, if he wanted to secure some of their fortune for his goals. And he needed more gold, to settle the affair with the Dementors. And more werewolves, as sacrifices. And even if they were too late, this scandal would sow distrust in the ranks of his enemies and force them to expend a lot of resources to check for werewolves. Which would drive more werewolves to his side once the Ministry and the public lashed out against them as expected.

“Bella, we’ll visit some werewolves.”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes, Master!”

*****


	50. The Year of Discovery

**Chapter 50: The Year of Discovery**

Sirius Black adjusted the golden goggles on his face. They looked gaudy, far more fitting for one over- or underdressed witch than himself, but they allowed him to see at night as if it was the full moon. They were heavy though, and pulling tight turns on his broom was sure to leave an impression on his face - literally. And he still couldn’t see the damn Death Eater hiding somewhere in the forest below him.

He, his girlfriends, Remus and Fleur and Bill had been alerted an hour ago that Death Eaters were attacking several locations all over Britain. It hadn’t taken them long to realise that it was a diversion - when they arrived at the Greentree Manor, the scum had already fled. Apparently, the Dark Lord’s wands had cast the Anti-Apparition and Portkey Jinxes so they didn’t cover much beyond the manor itself. If they had wanted to actually attack the manor, they’d have covered far more of the surrounding area, to make it harder to escape.

They had been trying to catch Death Eaters for an hour since, without success, until this group had lingered too long, and Sirius’s Sexy Strike Squad had been able to cover the area with Anti-Apparition Jinxes of their own before attacking from the sky.

Half of the Death Eaters had been killed in the opening barrage of fireballs from the five Veela. Two of the three survivors, who must have had layered fire protection spells on their robes, had fallen to Remus’s and Bill’s curses, but one had escaped into the woods. He hadn’t gone far enough to apparate away though, and Sirius’s group had covered the entire forest with more Anti-Apparition Jinxes just in time. The Death Eater couldn’t run - but he could, and did hide. And he had done that for so long, Sirius was seriously considering to simply have the Veela burn the entire forest down. It wouldn’t drive the Death Eater out - between his robe’s protections, a Bubblehead Charm and the Flame-Freezing Charm, a forest fire wouldn’t harm that wizard - but they would be able to spot him in the ashes afterwards. But the Greentrees would be very angry with him - they did claim to have Dryad blood in their line, after all, and were famous for their Herbology talents.

“Got him!”

To his right Remus suddenly dove down. His friend had keen eyes, one of the few good effects of his curse. Sirius turned his broom towards the werewolf, but didn’t dive himself. He might have to trade altitude for speed if there were Death Eaters on brooms around. His girlfriends did the same, he noticed, two of them gliding closer while the others kept their positions.

Then Remus’s spell lit up a patch of the forest, and Sirius could see a figure running between the trees, towards a denser patch of the woods. Dark robes and a white mask - a Death Eater. The two Veela who had flown closer were already casting curses at the wizard, so Sirius held back, and kept an eye on the sky. Even though he really wanted to curse that scumbag himself, he had to keep his friends safe.

A scream from below told him someone’s curse had found its mark. Hopefully it hadn’t been a lethal one - a prisoner would be good to have. Even if every Death Eater that murderer knew had already been killed, they’d get the location of their safe house, forcing the Dark Lord to find a new one.

He glanced down. The body wasn’t moving anymore, and Remus, who had landed, looked up and shook his head. Dead Death Eater then.

Well, safe houses were cheap, it wouldn’t have hurt the Dark Lord much anyway.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort, disillusioned and floating high up in the night sky, was studying the activities around Ethan Hathaway’s manor from about a mile away. The Aurors and Hit-Wizards were close to breaking the wards on the manor, after hours of working on them. The Ministry had moved quickly. Fickleton had been arrested shortly after Umbridge and Caldwell had escaped, as had been Rees ap Evan, but Hathaway had apparently been at home, entertaining guests, last night, according to Voldemort’s spies in the Ministry, and had holed up at once.

The Dark Lord pondered the situation. If he attacked the Aurors now, with a third of them tied up in breaking the wards, he’d easily deal with them. The backlash from the wards would wipe out half of them. But the wards would still be holding, if weakened, and breaking them would give the Ministry enough time to send in reinforcements, even with the distractions he had ordered, and then Voldemort would be caught breaking down the wards.

No, it was better to let them break the wards, and then strike. Make Hathaway feel exposed and vulnerable, before Voldemort would demonstrate his own power. He flew down to the ground and ended his spell, landing next to his Bella, hidden behind a tree. “Get ready. We strike as soon as the wards go down.”

“Yes, Master!” Her face lit up with an eager smile and she licked her lips in anticipation.

“Kill them quickly, we can’t waste much time.” The dark witch had a tendency to play with her opponents, a habit he had been trying to ween her off for some time now. But old habits were hard to change, and having spent a decade in Azkaban hadn’t helped either.

“Yes, Master,” she answered, “I will not let you down!”

“I know.” She was his most loyal wand. She’d die for him, with a smile on her face, if he but asked.

He felt the tension in the air rise. The wards would crack soon. “Let’s go.”

He disillusioned himself again and flew off. His detection spells showed him the wards covering the mansion. Someone without experience in Curse-Breaking would assume the wards had been reduced to a shadow of their former strength. But that was not correct. The wards’ strength had been dispersed so their anchors could be attacked. He could see the power held at bay by the Aurors’ Curse-Breakers, ready to rush back and crush the Aurors.

And he could see the ties to the wardstone getting cut one after the other while he flew over the Curse-Breakers. Then the last tie was cut, and the wards’ energy dispersed in an impressive display.

When the half-dozen wizards and witches who had been taking down the wards cheered, he struck.

“Bombarda Maxima!”

The earth erupted in the middle of the curse-breaking team, throwing them around like rag dolls. He cast another Blasting Curse before they could recover, tearing four of them apart, their robes’ enchantments crafted to repel wards, not spells. The two left were battered and hurt.

The half a dozen Hit-Wizards and Aurors who had the manor surrounded on brooms started towards them. The inexperienced probably thought the wards had not been taken down properly. The experienced ones would know better, but they would still come - they wouldn’t leave those on the ground, those wounded, at the mercy of an ambusher.

The first two reached the Curse-Breakers and landed. Two others took up station above them, and the remaining pair held their positions, to prevent Hathaway from escaping in the confusion. Voldemort had expected that and flew behind the closest pair. His first Killing Curse struck one before he knew what had happened, and his next killed the other right when he was about to react.

Screams from the ground told him Bellatrix had struck as well.

“They’re invisible! Homenum Revelio!”

The Dark Lord singled that Auror out at once and dove at him, his wand spitting curses. The Auror - an older witch - dodged them all, not even straining her shield. Quite skilled and experienced indeed. And yet, when he reached the area she had covered with the Human-presence-revealing Spell, and saw him flying without a broom, she froze for an instant. “It’s the Dark Lord!” she screamed, right before his curses shattered her shield and ripped through her robe. The witch was thrown from her broom, dead before she hit the ground.

Her scream, meant to warn her allies, caused them to panic instead. Her partner fled as fast as his broom could go. Laughter from below him showed Bella taking advantage of the panic, and striking more Aurors and Hit-Wizards down. Judging by the lack of long screams though she was following his orders to the letter, and didn’t use the Torture Curse.

A minute later, all the Ministry forces were dead or had fled. They’d be screaming for help - but his wands were out tonight, striking at several places in order to force the DMLE to split its forces. It’d take them a while to gather enough people to bother him and Bellatrix. Long enough to do what he had come for.

He flew towards the now open manor, blasting apart a few animated statues that tried to attack him when he landed, and smashed the doors open with a Banishing Charm. Before he stepped into the splendid entrance hall, he ordered Bella to look out for Auror reinforcements.

An Amplifying Charm later, his voice filled the whole house: “Hathaway! Show yourself if you want to live!” He had repeated it twice and was considering another demonstration of his power, when suddenly a concealed door opened under the stairs leading up to the first floor, and the wizard he was seeking stepped out.

“The Dark Lord Voldemort, I presume,” Hathaway said, though under his bravado, Voldemort could sense fear - and hatred. As expected.

“Indeed. The Ministry is aware of your curse. By resisting their Aurors, you’ll be branded a criminal. If you join me, you’ll be restored to your position and power, after my victory.” Voldemort smiled at the man. There was no need to go to great lengths - Hathaway knew what his life would be like as a werewolf, and the Dark Lord knew from long experience that the higher a wizard stood in society, the more he was willing to do to avoid falling. But they couldn’t wait too long for the wizard to make up his mind. “You don’t have much time left though - the Aurors will return in force, and then it’ll be too late to flee. So, what will it be? Prison and shame?”

The man ground his teeth, almost snarling. A fitting reaction for a werewolf, Voldemort thought. He held Hathaway’s eyes until the man cursed under his breath and looked away.

“Alright.”

“I doubt you will need to grab anything but what you already carry on you. Follow me!” Voldemort turned to the side, to keep an eye on the door, ignoring how the man jerked. Of course Hathaway would have used the the siege of his manor to prepare to flee with as much of his fortune as he could carry, no matter how small a chance he had. But if the fool thought Voldemort had spied on him, so much the better - he’d be far less likely to try to betray the Dark Lord before his usefulness would end.

It wasn’t as if werewolves were fit for the society Voldemort would be building after his victory.

Once more grinding his teeth, Hathaway passed Voldemort and left his manorn. The Dark Lord followed. Outside, his Bella waited, looking the werewolf over and pursing her lips before smiling at Voldemort.

“We’ll have to move away from the manor until we can apparate. Bellatrix will take you with her,” Voldemort stated while he started to walk. It would take longer to dispel the Anti-ApparitionJinxes, since he had left them up to keep Hathaway from escaping him.

Before they reached the edge of the jinxes though he saw movement in the woods in front of him. “Aurors.” And since he had been recognized by those who had fled, the Ministry wouldn’t have sent more of their wands back if they didn’t think they could face him. Given that his followers should still be keeping most of the Aurors busy, that left only one possibility.

“Dumbledore.”

For a second he felt fear. Dumbledore had beaten Grindelwald, who had brought most of Magical Europe to its knees. The old wizard had decades of experience on him, and had to know spells Voldemort was not aware of.

And yet, he thought, with growing hatred and eagerness, Dumbledore didn’t know as much about the Dark Arts as he did. Voldemort had decades of experience studying the most forbidden, most powerful spells wizardkind had ever dared to research. And Dumbledore had spent most of the last decades as a professor and politician, not on the battlefield. The Dark Lord could kill him.

And even if he failed, he would return. He was immortal. Ten, twenty years from now, Dumbledore might be weakened with age, or dead.

“Master!”

Bella’s voice interrupted his thoughts. There were bound to be a dozen or two Aurors, at least. If he confronted Dumbledore they would overwhelm Bella and Hathaway, and then attack him. And even if he couldn’t die, he’d lose all he had built up and prepared since his return. He’d have to start anew, and very likely without his trusted followers.

No, he couldn’t confront Dumbledore here, or now.

“Move!” he shouted, and flew up, disillusioning himself again before sending Fiendfyre into the woods around the manor - and in front of Bellatrix and Hathaway. Screams from below told him the Aurors there would be too busy dodging the cursed fire to attack Bellatrix.

He flew high above the building, casting more Fiendfyre into the forest hiding the Aurors and his worst enemy, distracting them until Bellatrix had apparated away with the werewolf. Then he too apparated away. He had what he had come for, and the number of the Ministry’s more competent Aurors had been further reduced. Not a bad result for salvaging a failed plot.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick threw up ash with each step he took. Even in the pale light of the rising sun, he could see the specks float in the wind. If not for the charms on his robe, he’d be covered with soot. And if he hadn’t cast a Bubble-Head Charm, he’d be coughing and wheezing in the dust. After hours of fighting against cursed fire, the Auror felt dead tired, but they had finally managed to put out the last unnatural blaze, and without the Obliviators having to work too hard to keep the muggle fire brigade away. He glanced at his partner, Bertha Limmington. The witch was sitting on the charred remains of a tree trunk, staring at the smoking wasteland left of the forest around Hathaway’s manor.

Someone who didn’t know her as well as Kenneth did would think she was studying the area, but he could see past the mask she had put on. The witch was as exhausted as he felt. He walked over and sat down next to her.

“What a cursed mess!” he said, sighing.

Bertha nodded.

“How many did we lose?” He didn’t want to know, but had to.

“A dozen total. Most from the original team, but Jefferson and Mannings were caught in the Fiendfyre the Dark Lord threw down.”

Kenneth muttered a curse under his breath. Those two Aurors had been off-duty, technically, but had volunteered just like Bertha and himself had, when the news of the Dark Lord’s attack had come in at the Ministry. Not close friends, but… in this war, you couldn’t help but get to know the other veterans better. And miss them when they died.

“It could have been worse,” Bertha said.

“Of course. But with Dumbledore - the Headmaster, not his brother, I mean - with us, I hoped…” He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. Bertha understood.

“The Dark Lord fled from Dumbledore. That will raise morale, at least,” his partner said.

Kenneth scoffed, his breath sending flakes of ash that had been drifting by spiraling through the air. “And yet the Dark Lord managed to escape with Hathaway. That will raise the morale of the Death Eaters.”

“Maybe. But I think the gold they took with them will be more of a concern than the enemy’s morale.” When he looked at her, she frowned slightly, and continued. “Hathaway must have taken most of his fortune with him. They didn’t find any gold in his mansion. The house elf isn’t talking either.”

“What about his vault?” Kenneth knew most people, rich or poor, didn’t keep too much gold at home.

“I doubt he kept a lot of gold there, not after he was cursed.”

He nodded. Bertha was right - as usual. If Hathaway had been revealed as a werewolf, his successor as head of the family would cut him off from the family fortune at once. So, the wily politician would have been prepared for that. “Joy. More mercenaries getting hired by the Dark Lord.”

“And more people bribed,” Bertha added.

“Yes. At least we arrested the two other werewolves before he could save them.” Two out of three was not bad. It could have been worse indeed.

The witch nodded tiredly. She was a perfectionist, Kenneth knew. Still, they had done what they could. If Dumbledore hadn’t managed to win the day, who could have done it? He stood up and offered her his hand. “Let’s get home before you fall asleep in the ash.”

She looked at him with an unreadable expression in her eyes. Usually, he’d have joked about not wanting to do the reports himself, but somehow, he couldn’t. He simply waited with his hand reaching out to her.

After a moment, she took it and rose from the log. Her robes shed the ash easily, and a small breeze blew them away. He wanted to keep holding her hand, pull her closer, and … Merlin, it would be easy if she was another witch and not his partner. He knew how to make a good first impression, how to flirt, how to make a woman feel loved. Despite Bertha’s sometimes teasing comments, he was popular with the witches.

But Bertha was different. She was his partner. She knew him, at his worst and his best. They trusted each other with their lives each day. And he knew her, far better than any of his past girlfriends. She wasn’t just another witch to woo. He sighed as they went over to Mallory, the Auror in charge of this case, to inform her they’d leave.

He loved her, but he had no idea how to tell her without endangering their friendship. If this was happening to someone else, he would have found it funny. It wasn’t funny anymore if it happened to himself.

*****

Sirius Black was sitting in the bath in No. 12, Grimmauld Place, trying not to fall asleep. It had been a long night. The damned Death Eaters had been striking at manors and other locations all over Britain, running the Aurors and the Order ragged. One house in Hogsmeade had been destroyed. Apparently the wards had been sabotaged in advance, so not every attack had been a diversion. And of course there had been the Dark Lord himself, at the Hathaway Manor.

Sirius shifted his weight a bit, and winced. Even with a Cushioning Charm, flying on a broom for hours was not too comfortable. Or, a traitorous part of his mind whispered, he was getting old. He ignored the voice and pointed his wand at a flask at the other end of the bathtub, tipping it over and letting more of the soothing concoction drip into the water, sighing with relief when the pain disappeared.

He could simply stay in here. Sticking Charm to his head, he wouldn’t drown. The water would stay warm… The door opening interrupted his plans. Valérie was there, clad in that flimsy house robe. He smiled and waved at the water. “Join me?”

“I might have strained the muscles in my back a bit.” She smiled and stepped closer. With a gesture of her wand, her robe fell to floor.

Sirius took a deep breath - even after all their time together, seeing her like this still awed him.

*****

‘Werewolves among us! Hidden in the Wizengamot!’

The Daily Prophet’s headline was certain to catch an audience. The news that three Wizengamot members had been revealed as werewolves had driven the articles about the attacks last night off the front page. Albus Dumbledore did not think this was a good thing. Not at all. He skimmed over the article. ‘Beasts infiltrating society’, ‘Cabal of dark creatures’, ‘personally directed by the Dark Lord himself’. Speculation about how many werewolves had been among those who had attacked the Hogwarts Express. And loud, almost hysterical demands of ferreting out each and every last werewolf in Britain.

The article didn’t demand that all werewolves should be killed. Others would though, and soon. Especially in the Wizengamot. Albus would oppose it, of course, but in the end, there’d be a ‘compromise’, further worsening the fates of the werewolves. Probably forcing all of them into special holding facilities - such had been proposed in the past.

It didn’t take a genius to imagine how the werewolves would react to that. Some would flee the country, head to Scandinavia, despite the harsh life and foreign culture awaiting them there. But many would feel so hurt and angered, they’d join the Dark Lord. Something Tom certainly had taken into account already.

Albus had a more urgent problem though - he had to ensure that Remus would not be caught in the upcoming hunt for werewolves. Fortunately, he could easily and correctly claim that he had personally checked the staff and students at Hogwarts. But Remus’s regular absences during the full moon were a problem - even a halfway competent Auror would be suspicious of that. He had a way around that, though. He just needed to talk to Minerva.

A flick of his wand sent a Patronus to his deputy. While he waited, he let his mind wander back to last night. He had met Tom face to face, or close to, for the first time in decades. And Tom had retreated. It had been the smart course of action of the Dark Lord - he had Ethan with him already, and there had been no need to fight Albus.

And yet… if the Dark Lord had thought he could beat Albus, he certainly would have given battle. Had he fled because he thought he was currently winning this struggle, or because he knew about Miss Granger’s plan, or suspected something like it? Or had he fled because he was afraid of facing the Headmaster?

Minerva’s arrival interrupted his thoughts.

“Albus? You said you needed me?” His old friend was breathing a bit heavily - she probably had, while not quite run, walked quickly.

“Indeed, Minerva. Please have a seat.” He conjured her favorite chair for her. “It’s not quite as urgent as I may have made it appear by using a Patronus,” - he smiled gently at her expression - “but we do have a problem I need your help with.” He gestured at the Daily Prophet on his desk.

“Ah.” His Deputy-Headmistress nodded, then narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t accept a werewolf as a student without telling me?” She asked,’again’ left unsaid, but clearly implied. Minerva’s view of werewolves wasn’t quite as enlightened as Albus’s own, sadly. Not as bad, of course, as the general public’s - no one as smart as her could work with Remus for years and not rethink some of their prejudices.

He shook his head. “No, of course not.” He had had a young witch in mind, but the child had disappeared with her family last year. He hoped they were now in Scandinavia. “But I need your help with Remus.”

He started to explain his plan. She didn’t like it, but he had expected that. She’d agree to it, though, he knew.

*****

“Typical!”

Hermione Granger slapped the Daily Prophet down on the table in the kitchen in No. 12, Grimmauld Place so hard, the werewolf in the picture on the front page seemed stunned for a bit. Grinding her teeth, she grabbed her floating cup of tea. “They use every excuse to show their prejudice!”

“They’re scared,” Bill Weasley commented. She glared at him, but he didn’t seem to be impressed.

“That’s no excuse! They are all but calling for hunting all werewolves down, no matter if they are innocent, or not!” Hermione scoffed.

“It’s an explanation. People who are afraid make mistakes,” Bill shrugged.

“That will be a small consolation for the innocents caught up in this,” Hermione huffed. “They didn’t ask to be cursed. First they get discriminated against, and now they get punished for the actions of others.”

“There won’t be that many innocent werewolves around. Many of them have either left the country, or have joined the Dark Lord.” Bill held up his hands. “Just saying how it is. Werewolves might not get treated that fairly in Britain, but there are reasons to distrust them.”

“It’s wrong. And it’ll drive more of them into the Dark Lord’s ranks.” Hermione grabbed a scone and bit into it.

Harry patted her arm. “It’s a vicious cycle. Werewolves are discriminated against, so some of them are radicalized and join the Dark Lord, which damages the reputation of all werewolves, making more people treat them badly, creating more recruits for the Dark Lord.”

Sirius nodded, as did his girlfriends. Of course, Hermione hadn’t expected anything else from Remus’s best friend.

Bill looked puzzled though. “I’ll say, this must be the most werewolf friendly household in Britain. Especially with Remus’s family having been slaughtered ...” he trailed off, and Hermione could almost see when the knut dropped. “Oh.”

Maybe now he’d reconsider his views on werewolves, Hermione thought.

*****

Paige Caldwell wanted to hit something, or somebody. She and the witch had been hiding for two days in a small wizard tent now, and Paige wasn’t taking well to spending so long in a small enclosed space. Or with Umbridge. She wanted to move around, run around, do something, anything other than hide like a scared animal. Even if she was scared.

“We need to leave the country.”

Paige looked up and growled at the witch standing in the door to her room. “Fleeing?” Running from those cowards?

“The Ministry and the Dark Lord are hunting us. There’s no place left for us in Britain. They already arrested Fickleton and Rees ap Evan, and the Dark Lord himself took Hathaway. If we stay we’ll die. Tortured to death by the Dark Lord, or executed by the Ministry.”

“I’d be executed, you’d get life in Azkaban,” Paige answered. Another sign of just how badly werewolves were treated in Britain. You could use Unforgivables as much as you wanted, and wouldn’t be executed, but bite one stupid wizard under the full moon, and you would be killed.

“I helped you bite others. I’ll be executed as well if we’re caught.” Umbridge stepped inside. Paige growled louder. This was her space. Her lair. The other witch stopped. “What else do you want to do? Charge the next Auror and die? Keep hiding until they track us down?”

Paige growled again. “And where would I go? The entire continent hates werewolves.”

“There’s Scandinavia.”

The werewolf scoffed at that. “You think that’s a werewolf haven? The berserkers?”

For the first time Umbridge looked less than sure of herself. Paige went on. “I’ve met a berserker. They’re crazy. And they live more like muggles than like wizards. They like being wolves, and they are as bloodthirsty as Greyback in a fight, and almost as ready to start one as he is.”

“Damn.” The other witch leaned against the wall. “What about Siberia?”

“I’ve only heard rumours about it.” And she hadn’t liked those rumours. Why couldn’t there be a werewolf-friendly country where the inhabitants liked civilisation?

“At least it’d be far away from Britain. And if it’s not good, one could travel to America from there.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “Why do you care about how werewolf friendly a country is, anyway? You can live in any country that doesn’t like Britain much, and as long as I can hide my curse, so can I.”

Umbridge nodded, but didn’t answer. Instead she said: “We need to leave Britain first, then we can decide where to go.”

“If not for the life debt, you’d have already ditched me, right?” Probably literally.

“Of course.” The witch sneered at her.

Paige snarled at her, and wished she could order her around. Life debts weren’t exactly as good as she had thought.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick looked up at the moon in the sky, and shook his head in disgust. “Who came up with the idea of hunting werewolves during the full moon? In a damn forest to boot?”

His partner, Bertha Limmington, had an answer, of course: “Amber Cottingbell remarked in the last session of the Wizengamot that it would be easiest to find werewolves during the one night they wouldn’t look like humans. Apparently, Madam Bones agreed.”

“You mean it’s cheaper than spending gold to test suspects. I’m so glad to know we’re risking our lives for the Wizengamot’s purse.” Kenneth snorted. “Did you notice that when a bill is proposed to increase our budget, it takes them months if not years to pass it, but a bill to hunt down werewolves passes in one session?”

“The Wizengamot obviously thinks those are the correct priorities.”

Kenneth scoffed. “Of course they would.” He looked around. “And we’re here because a month ago, a muggle newspaper reported the sighting of a wolf in this forest.”

“Exactly,” Bertha answered in a bland voice. Kenneth was certain though that if had been looking at her, instead of looking out for werewolves, she’d have been grinning just a little bit.

“Well, at least we can claim we’re a couple taking a romantic moonshine walk, should muggles see us.” When Bertha didn’t say anything in response, he turned his head towards her, and caught her smiling while still looking at the bushes on her side. He licked his lips. Maybe he should… The sudden flash of red light ahead of them made him drop his plans. “Stunner?”

“Or a Piercing Curse. Or a muggle flashlight.” Bertha answered. She was moving forward too though, wand out.

Another flash of light was followed by a guttural scream. Not a muggle light then. And probably not a human either. They turned a slight corner, past a hedge, and stopped. In front of them was a stunned werewolf! And behind it stood a wizard with his wand pointed at them.

“Aurors! Lower your wand!” Both Kenneth and Bertha had their wands aimed at the unknown wizard.

The man did as he was told, and Kenneth relaxed slightly. “I’m Auror Fenbrick, this is Auror Limmington. Who’re you?”

The man took a step forward, into the moonlight.

“Professor Lupin!” Bertha said, and Kenneth raised his eyebrows.

“What are you doing here, sir?” Kenneth couldn’t think of a good reason to spend for a teacher to be there, at this time of the night.

“I was hunting. But I think I have been fooled,” the man explained.

“Fooled?”

Lupin nodded at the werewolf on the ground. “I have reasons to believe this is not a real werewolf, but a transfigured animal.”

Bertha frowned. “That would take a very experienced wizard.” She sounded as sceptical as Kenneth felt. Who had ever heard of transfigured werewolves?

Lupin glared at them and pointed his wand at the werewolf.

“Finite!”

And in front of Kenneth’s eyes, the werewolf changed into a German shepherd. Lupin smiled with a satisfied expression. “I thought something felt off. It wasn’t quite behaving like a werewolf.”

“You sound like an expert, sir.” Bertha didn’t quite turn it into a question.

“I think I know more about werewolves than most in Britain. My family was slaughtered by them when I was a child.”

Under the cold gaze of the man, even the usually unflappable Bertha seemed to cringe. Kenneth could imagine that the lessons with this professor were as disciplined and calm as those of McGonagall.

He cleared his throat. “So, this was a hoax?”

“Maybe.” The man shrugged. “It takes a very experienced wizard to do this.”

“I kind of doubt that McGonagall or Dumbledore would fake a werewolf sighting these days,” Kenneth said.

Lupin chuckled. “Well, I didn’t catch the werewolf I hunted. And I think whoever did plan this is not around here anymore. Do you need a statement from me?”

Kenneth looked at his partner, Bertha shook her head. “If that changes we’ll contact you.”

“Good. Good evening.” The man nodded at them, then apparated away.

“Wow. I didn’t think those rumours were true.” Kenneth shook his head. “He really is hunting werewolves during the full moon.”

“That’s not exactly legal,” Bertha remarked.

“As long as he ‘simply defends himself’, it is,” Kenneth responded. “Not that many in the Wizengamot would even think of convicting him now, if it was illegal.”

Bertha frowned at that, and without thinking, Kenneth reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She didn’t pull away.

After a bit, Kenneth prodded the stunned animal in front of them with his foot. “So… what do we do with the dog? Do we need to call in an Obliviator to wipe his memory when he wakes up?”

Both of them laughed loudly at that joke.

*****

Thank you again for doing this, Minerva,” Albus Dumbledore smiled and ignored the glare she sent him in return.

“I’m a professor, not an actress, Albus!”

He kept smiling even while Fawkes ducked his head under his wing, and floated a bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky over to his friend. Minerva kept frowning until another bottle joined the first. “I think you’ve proven that you have a talent for it though.”

“Feh.”

“Now, now, Minerva. You just saved our Defense against the Dark Arts professor from being unjustly incarcerated.” Indeed, the old rumour that Remus was always away during the full moon because he was hunting the werewolves that had killed his family had come in handily. Who would suspect that such a driven man was a werewolf himself? It wasn’t a perfect solution, of course - everyone knew that hunting werewolves under the full moon was dangerous. A hunter could easily become the hunted - and end up cursed himself. But Albus was confident that he could easily counter such suspicions.

“Anyone else could have done that.”

“No one but you could have managed the transfiguration needed.” Albus nodded at her.

“Don’t give me that look. You could have done it yourself. You taught me that spell, decades ago.”

Albus sighed. “Sadly, if I couldn’t do it myself. If there had been an emergency, I would have had to leave abruptly, causing a lot of problems for young Remus with the Aurors.” That was true. But having Minerva use the Polyjuice also implicated her, which would make her keep a closer eye on rumours about Remus. Otherwise she might let her prejudices, slight as they were, influence her.

Minerva shook her head, but didn’t contradict him. “I hope you’re satisfied now. Deceiving the law… if my students knew that!”

“I’m certain the Weasley twins would be shocked .”

That earned him a chuckle. “They would, wouldn’t they?” She stood up. “I’ll be heading to bed now. I’ve got a lot of work to do still in the three days until the children arrive.”

Albus kept smiling until Minerva had left, then he grew serious again, and pulled a vial out of his pocket that contained Harry’s most recent memory of Voldemort.

Duty called.

*****

Harry Potter stepped out of the Floo connection and onto Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station, with Hermione right behind him. Sirius was already there, with Valérie and Chantal, acting as if they expected a dozen Death Eaters to jump out from behind a pillar any second. They weren’t the only ones - all around them were wizards and witches acting in a similar manner. No one had forgotten the attack on the train this summer. Harry saw more than one student who was pale and obviously afraid - and not just the younger ones. Things had changed.

“Mister Potter!”

And some things - or people - never seemed to change, Harry thought when he saw Greengrass walking towards him, a wide smile on her face. The blonde Slytherin was wearing what looked like green silk scarves strategically wrapped around her curves. Almost transparent scarves that left little to the imagination. Davis was trailing behind her friend with an amused grin, wearing a slightly more modest robe in a similar style.

“Good morning, Miss Greengrass, Miss Davis.” He nodded politely at them. Hermione was a step behind him, rigid now, he knew. And Sirius was grinning like a loon.

“Good morning, Mister Black, Miss d’Aigle.” The Slytherin nodded at Harry’s godfather and probably future aunt before turning back to him. “Oh, you look even more handsome in those robes. Doesn’t he, Tracey?”

The brunette Slytherin nodded. “He does indeed. You too, Miss Granger.”

“You flatter me,” Harry said, and as manners dictated, added: “Though I’m certain next to you two, I appear rather plain.”

“I don’t think so!” Greengrass chirped, “Let’s see!” With that she stepped up to him and turned to face her friend at his side. “How does it look, Tracey? Good?”

“Mh.” The brunette witch nodded with a smirk.

“Too bad you’re not in Slytherin, or the colors would match.” Greengrass nodded emphatically at her own words. Harry thought he heard Hermione’s teeth being ground behind him.

“I hate to cut this short, but I need to board the train, or my dear security detail will drag me off,” Harry lied - probably; Sirius took his security seriously - and nodded at them. “Ladies.”

“Oh we can share a compartment!” Greengrass spoke up.

“We usually have a full compartment,” Hermione cut in. She sounded polite, but Harry was certain she was close to hexing the blonde.

“That shouldn’t be a problem - we’re rather slender, so we can fit in.” As if to emphasize her claim, Greengrass turned a bit, brushing against Harry’s side.

Surprisingly, the situation was defused by the arrival of yet another Slytherin ‘odd couple’, Parkinson and Goyle. As soon as Greengrass spotted the other witch, she was off to greet her as if they hadn’t seen each other for years.

“Let’s get a compartment for us and our friends,” Hermione whispered behind him.

“Yes,” he whispered back. The sooner they were in private again, and could drop the patron and retainer act, the better.

*****

Hermione Granger sighed with relief when she closed the door to their compartment. She hit it with a spell to seal it and a privacy spell, before sitting down in Harry’s lap. “I almost hexed that twit.” She wasn’t certain if she was joking or not. To see Greengrass acting so… she shook her head.

“Parkinson sacrificed herself for us,” Harry said, chuckling at the irony.

“Not exactly voluntarily, judging by her expression,” Hermione added. Not that she cared much about Parkinson. The witch should know how to handle Greengrass, having spent five years in the same dorm as her. She leaned her head on Harry’s shoulder and simply enjoyed the closeness. “You know, I didn’t think that the main problem would be the flirting. You can turn down proposals without being rude, but rebuffing flirting? That’s going to be difficult.”

“Oh, yes,” her boyfriend agreed while Crookshanks was trying to take over the entire bench across from them. The two spent the next few minutes kissing, and Hermione tried to forget about the earlier scene.

All too soon her spell signaled someone standing before the door. Sighing, she moved from Harry’s lap to the bench next to him and opened the door with a flick of her wand. Luna and Aicha entered with a cheerful ‘Hello’. Right afterwards though, the blonde Ravenclaw took a look at Harry and Hermione and started to pout.

“Hello you two… what’s wrong?” Hermione asked as soon as the door had closed.

“Hmph!” Luna crossed her arms in front of her.

Aicha giggled. “Luna’s jealous.”

“Huh?” Hermione glanced at Harry, who looked as lost as she felt. Did Luna…?

“I’m not jealous, I’m disappointed! I thought you’d wear some conservative muggle-style robe! I wouldn’t feel too bad next to that. Instead you wear… that!” she gestured at their robes. “It’s unfair!”

Hermione smiled, relieved. “You’ll be a 6th year next year.”

“That’s one more year of wearing the heavy robes!”

“You didn’t complain about it last year,” Harry remarked.

“Well, all my friends were wearing the same heavy robes. So, I was just showing some solidarity while we are almost suffocated wearing such heavy cloth.”

Harry cleared his throat. “So, how was your expedition to Sweden?”

Luna changed moods at once, beaming at them. “Oh, it was great! We found tracks we couldn’t identify, so they have to be Snorkack tracks! You can read all about it in the next issue!”

Hermione wasn’t quite certain that this was a valid conclusion, but didn’t mention it. She had started to suspect that for the Lovegoods, the chasing of legendary creatures was as important, if not more so, as the actual discovery. Life was a journey, not a destination, according to some. It would explain why Luna and her father were always so cheerful despite not having found Snorkacks yet.

She checked her watch. Still twenty minutes until the departure of the train, so fifteen minutes until the Weasleys would arrive.

*****

Ron Weasley had expected that without the twins, whose antics had always made the family late on September 1st, he’d arrive early at King’s Cross. Show off his Quidditch Team Captain badge. Apparently, it hadn’t been the twins’ fault, but some sort of family curse. Despite him and Ginny having packed their trunks last evening, they still had to rush to be on time. Unless of course the twins had pranked them. And of course, as soon as they had stepped out of the Floo connection, Ginny had made a beeline for Neville, who could have worn a slightly less revealing robe too, in Ron’s opinion. Like his own, a short tunic that left his arms bare under the light robe, with tight pants and boots. Both top and pants were made from silk though, and could slowly change colors and patterns.

Then he saw Lavender in the crowd, wearing the kind of robe he had expected: Very tiny, very thin, very tight. But she was also wearing a prefect’s badge, he realised. Which meant that Parvati hadn’t returned to Hogwarts. Which meant that Padma wouldn’t be there either. He felt relieved, and then guilty for feeling that way.

The witch had seen him as well, and quickly approached him. “Hello Ron.”

“Hi Lavender.” He nodded at her new badge. “Congratulations.”

She scowled. “I didn’t want it. I wanted Parvati to return for our 6th year.”

“Did you know she’d not return?”

“She wrote me a letter, but the school letter with the badge had arrived a day before her letter, and so I already knew, sort of.” Lavender pouted. “It’s so unfair! We had planned our 6th year together since we met for the first time!”

Ron nodded and made a sympathetic noise. At least she had received a letter. He hadn’t.

Lavender suddenly blinked. “Merlin! I’m sorry - I forgot Padma was your girlfriend, and she’s not returning either!”

“It’s OK,” he told her. “She seems to have forgotten that as well.”

“Oh!” He could almost see her thoughts - surprise, brief sympathy, and then she saw the opportunity. “Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m listening. Parvati was my best friend.”

He nodded. “Yeah.” He knew she meant more than just talking, but she was pretty, and it was their 6th year.

“Good.” She smiled at him. “Well, I have to go - prefects shouldn’t be late.” She patted his arm before she left.

On the way to his friends’ compartment, he ran into Parkinson. She was wearing a less revealing robe than Lavender. Still unmistakably a 6th year, of course. The Slytherin was probably on her way to the prefect’s compartment already. “Miss Parkinson.” He nodded at her.

“Mister Weasley.” She nodded back.

“I hope you had a nice holiday,” he said, surprising himself. She was a snake, and she had been Malfoy’s girlfriend for years. But… people did change, didn’t they?

She seemed surprised as well. “I did. I heard you were attacked in Bulgaria.”

“Yes.”

She didn’t ask for details, simply nodded. “Good day, Mister Weasley.” Then she was on her way to the prefect’s compartment, and he was on his way to his friends.

*****

Pansy Parkinson tried to ignore Greengrass’s prattling about Potter’s robe and chest, and focus on something else. Anything else. In moments like these she really envied Greg’s ability to not understand anything he didn’t want to. She did exchange a glance with Davis, though, her frowning at the other’s smirk. She couldn’t blame the girl - she remembered how she had used Draco as a source of unwitting amusement. Before the Slytherin had changed. Before Draco had been murdered. Before the attack on the Hogwarts Express.

“So, did you talk to Weasley yet?”

Pansy looked at Davis. She was about to shake her head, then reconsidered. “Yes, I did. About the holidays.” Technically true.

Davis looked surprised, then grinned. “You’re a quick one!”

Pansy almost made a joke about being quick or dead that she’d heard from a duellist. She shook her head instead. If she had been quicker, Vincent would still be alive. She’d probably dream of his death again. She knew a number of the students had decided to get obliviated of the worst memories. She wouldn’t chose that, of course. Losing her memories was like losing part of her life.

She wondered how Weasley dealt with the memories he must have. Maybe she should ask him someday. They were in 6th year, after all, where the house boundaries became somewhat fluid. She winced at her unplanned pun.

“Didn’t go as well as you wanted with him?” Greengrass leaned forward, eager to hear more. As if Pansy would humour her. Instead she shook her head. “Just remembered the attack again.”

“Oh.”

That shut even the twit up. The attack wasn’t something one joked about. At least Pansy hoped so.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort looked at the remains of his latest globe. It had lasted a few minutes before the runes storing the power had failed, but at least the discharge had been controlled, and hadn’t resulted in a massive explosion. He needed it to store more energy, and last longer so he could use it, but it was an important step. He was getting closer and closer to his goal.

And thanks to the Ministry’s werewolf hunt, more of the beasts had joined his ranks, eager to avenge that latest injustice. Even better, any of them disappearing would be taken as the work of the Ministry, not himself. Like his latest sacrifice. The werewolf’s blood had fueled the Dark Lord’s experiments, and yet the beast’s pack would fight even harder against the Ministry to avenge his death. He smiled - an almost perfect setup.

He still had to deal with Hathaway though. The former Wizengamot member was too experienced in politics, and therefore plotting, to leave him unguarded, and it was unlikely that he’d take part in an assault where he could conveniently be killed by the enemy. And yet after having almost publically rescued the wizard, he couldn’t kill him or he’d undermine his followers’ morale.

Well, if the werewolf grew too unruly, he could always imperius the wolf and send him to his death. Or have Greyback settle it.

And Potter was now in his 6th year, and would be too busy fucking every witch that wanted a piece of the Boy-Who-Lived to find out what power he, Voldemort, didn’t know. It wasn’t tantric magic - Voldemort was quite experienced in that area, as Bella could attest - so the boy’s orgies wouldn’t result in the Dark Lord’s demise.

Soon it wouldn’t matter anymore. Soon he’d be able to tear down any ward he wanted.

*****


	51. Relationships

**Chapter 51: Relationships**

Usually, the sorting was quite the attraction in the Great Hall. It was traditional to speculate which first year would go to what house. This time though, Hermione Granger didn’t feel like watching first years tremble before the Sorting Hat. She was watching sixth years instead. Watching them watching Harry, and her, to be precise. Greengrass would have probably been drooling, if that wouldn’t have been showing bad manners. The blonde Slytherin made no secret of her desire to sleep with Harry.

And she wasn’t the only one. But she was one of those who seemed to fixate on Harry - there was a lot of staring and ogling going on. And a lot of the robes the new sixth years were wearing were meant to draw that kind of attention. She had never been more aware of the differences between wizard fashion (and taste) and muggle fashion than right then and there.

“If this was not Hogwarts, but London, I’d wonder who drugged the water,” Harry whispered, leaning towards her.

“I’d wonder who drugged my drink. With LSD,” Hermione whispered back, stifling a giggle.

“Well… we’re not exactly the height of muggle fashion either,” her boyfriend said.

“A necessary compromise,” she answered. She would rather have gone wearing nothing but some painted-on runes than to appear frumpy and prudish in front of all those witches after Harry. That might have given them ideas.

“Mh.”

Ron, sitting on the other side of the table, turned so he could watch the sorting, glanced over his shoulder at them. “What are you two whispering about?”

“Just talking about fashion,” Harry answered.

Ron snorted. “Lots to talk about then. Have you seen Parkinson?”

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table. The witch wasn’t wearing a particularly daring robe - for a pureblood. “She’s talking to Goyle and Davis. Has she been troubling you?”

Their friend sighed. “I’m not exactly certain. She’s … she didn’t make a pass at me, if you mean that.”

Hermione frowned. “Did you want her to?” He could do much, much better than Malfoy’s ex-girlfriend.

“Not exactly, but… Padma had been so jealous of her, I couldn’t help but wondering if there was a reason for that.”

“The Patils are not the only ones who didn’t return to Hogwarts,” Harry commented. He was correct - the tables had more free spaces than usual as well.

Hermione briefly wondered if that meant there would be more Gryffindors this year, proportionally, if the less brave had stayed away, then scolded herself for such petty prejudices.

Ron glanced over his shoulder. “Yes. We did better than the other houses, at least.”

Not everyone who was missing had been too afraid to return to school - a far too high number had been killed in the attack on the Hogwarts Express.

When the sorting had ended - Hermione hadn’t spotted a true muggleborn, but she would have to check with McGonagall to be certain she hadn’t mistaken a muggle name for a wizarding one - Dumbledore stood up. The feast appeared on the tables as well, and Hermione grabbed her goblet, to give the gods their due.

When the Headmaster lowered his head, Hermione understood that this year’s calling onto the gods would be different.

“Dis Pater. Watch over the dead, those cruelly taken from us by evil men and women, and guide them to the afterlife, where their ancestors await them.” He held out his goblet, and poured it out, the wine disappearing before it hit the ground.

The students and teachers followed his example. Hermione thought she could feel the magic in the air, her skin tingling, but once again she couldn’t tell if it was just the emotions of the people present affecting their and Hogwarts’ magic. No one said a word for a minute, before Dumbledore spoke again.

"Janus." He dipped the goblet, which had been refilled. Once again wine started to fall towards the ground, vanishing in mid air. "We humbly ask for your blessing. We need your aid more than ever, in these troubled times.”

“Hecate.” More wine poured out. More than the goblet could hold. “Protect us from evil curses, and from magic that would harm the innocent.”

“Apollo. Keep us healthy, and alive.” Hermione’s skin was tingling all over now, and her hair had escaped the styling spells and was now floating. She could see that others were affected as well - most around her, and at the other tables.

Finally, the goblets seemed empty, and the students and teachers sat down. For a moment, no one said anything, no one seemed to touch the food either, then Dumbledore’s voice sounded through the hall again. “Tuck in now!”

The excellent meal soon had the sombre mood banished. Hermione would have been happier though if a few witches and wizards had remained sombre for a bit longer.

*****

Harry Potter looked his new room over. It was smaller than his own at No. 12 Grimmauld Place, but still a far cry from sleeping in a dorm with four other boys. And the bed was larger too. A not so subtle reminder that he was now in sixth year. The windows provided a nice view of the Quidditch pitch - unless he used the enchantments on them to show him any of a variety of selections ranging from Hogwarts to several exotic locations. According to a rumour, Fred and George once had managed to adjust a window to show the female dorm’s bath.  
  
The door opened and he turned his head. There was only one person who'd enter without knocking, or could enter… and one half-kneazle. Crookshanks padded inside, briefly surveyed his new territory, then jumped on the bed behind Harry and sat down.  
  
"That's my bed. Mine and Hermione's," Harry informed the tomcat. Crookshanks, as usual ignored his words and stretched, digging his claws into the cover with an expression of utter bliss - or as much of such an expression a cat could manage.

“There you are, Crookshanks! You found our room already! Isn’t he the smartest cat ever, Harry?” Hermione entered, smiling widely. With a flick of her wrist she had her trunk float inside and land softly on the wall opposite Harry’s.

“He’s certainly the most stubborn cat I know,” Harry answered. Crookshanks yawned and appeared to fall asleep in response to his words. The young wizard turned to his girlfriend. “So, you’re moving in.”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “It’s just more practical to move in instead of visiting each night.” She unshrunk an armoire she had carried in her pocket, and started to levitate her robes inside it.

“Of course,” he said, with a grin as he stepped up to her. “I guess you already have repurposed your room as well?”

“Well, just using it to keep up appearances everyone knows are fake would be a waste,” Hermione answered, leaning into him. “We’re not in Bulgaria, after all.”

“Thank Merlin for that. I’d rather not see you in those robes.” He kissed her, and for the next minute neither said anything.

When they broke away, he asked: “And what are you using your room for now?”

“A closer work room.”

He nodded. The unused classroom they had repurposed years ago was a bit away. “It’s rather small though.”

“It is. But I’m not planning to use it as a laboratory. Just for light reading and homework.” Which meant, Harry knew, it would be full of books. She’d have to split her personal library though. Or rather, she’d likely simply stash the books she didn’t need for her research there. It wasn’t as if she didn’t already carry around a whole library in her pocket.

“And as a cover for when you’re working with the Headmaster, I guess.” He didn’t frown, even though he still didn’t like what she had to do.

“Yes.” She hugged him closely. He could feel her body pressed into his. She wasn’t wearing her outer robe, and his hands traveled over her bare back.

“You know, I feel kind of guilty. Tom’s out there, working on an evil ritual, and I’m acting like a typical sixth year, instead of working to stop him.” He didn’t add ‘like you’. She knew what he meant.

Hermione pulled her head back from his shoulder, and looked straight into his eyes. “Don’t feel guilty. You’re training more than I do, and you might have to fight him.”

“It still feels like… as if I’m trying to ignore him, if only for a moment.” As if he was running away from his problems, instead of facing them.

“You, we need that. If we cannot forget about him and enjoy life, we’ll break sooner or later. We need to be able to relax. And sex is a great way to relax.” The witch smiled slyly.

Harry knew she wasn’t just stressed by the Dark Lord’s plans. The offers, subtle or open, from other students were taking a toll on her as well, even if she could hide it well. She wasn’t just moving in with him because it was more practical, it was also a statement towards everyone else. A statement he agreed with and supported fully. “If we need to relax, does that mean we won’t use tantric magic to defeat the Dark Lord then?” He grinned.

Hermione snorted. “Merlin! Remember the twins trying to claim they were studying tantric magic for extra credits in History of Magic two years ago?” There was no need to ask which twins she meant.

Harry chuckled. “I don’t think anyone believed them. They had a lot of ‘study partners’ though.”

“Well, technically, it’s an exotic but valid magical tradition,” Hermione said, pulling away and sitting down on the bed. He joined her, taking care not to upset the feline occupier. “It’s just… to sum it up, it combines the worst aspects of normal spell casting and rituals.”

He slid up behind her and started to massage her neck and shoulders. “Hm?” He hadn’t really looked into the matter. Other than studying the materials Sirius had given him - but those had not really touched the ritual or magical aspects.

She sighed, and with a swish of her wand, had her robe pulled off her and flying towards her armoire. “Using tantric magic, it takes you as long as an average ritual to cast a simple spell.”

“What about the legendary power of sex magic?” Harry asked while his hands moved from Hermione’s shoulders and back to her side, and further.

“If there was such a thing, then Magical India would have fared far better in their conflict with Tibet. And don’t get me started on what a ‘virgin sacrifice’ actually means!” Hermione turned around and pushed him down on his back.

“Totally useless then?” Harry asked while she straddled him.

“Not totally useless,” Hermione said, then started to demonstrate what she meant.

*****

Ron Weasley passed Harry’s room - which was now Hermione’s room as well, as he understood it - on his way to the Gryffindor Common Room. The door shimmered, indicating they didn’t want to be disturbed. It wasn't the only door on their floor either - the door to Dean's room was showing the same shimmer, not surprising, since last he had seen the guy he had been on his way to the Hufflepuff dorms.

To his surprise, Lavender was sitting in the common room, by herself, and looking rather morose. She was just wearing her thin and slinky robe, having discarded the open outer robes like everyone else. Following an impulse, and remembering their brief chat on the platform, he walked over and sat down in the seat next to her.

She looked surprised, then smiled. “Looking for some company?”

“I could ask you the same.” He nodded at her badge. “Are you on duty?”

The witch frowned. “Not officially, but McGonagall hinted rather strongly that someone should keep an eye on the common room.” She nodded at the stairs. “And the other prefect is currently busy with his girlfriend.”

“Ah.” Ron wondered if McGonagall had spoken with Harry as well. His best friend didn’t tend to think of himself first, and Hermione wasn’t the type to ignore such ‘hints’ from teachers either.

Lavender sighed. “It’s mostly to make sure the younger years don’t get involved in things. I had to threaten to stick Romilda to her bed to make her stop trying to get up the stairs to the sixth year rooms.”

Ron winced. “You probably saved her life, if she had managed to break into Harry’s room…”

Lavender giggled. “Hermione would have hexed her good. Silly girl.”

Ron forced himself to chuckle. He had meant it literally. If Vane had tried to break through the wards on Harry’s room, that would have been bad. Worse though if she had succeeded - neither Harry nor Hermione would take the time to identify an intruder before cursing, not after the last attack on Harry by the Dark Lord’s minions.

“Or your sister, I guess, if Romy had gone after Neville.” Lavender shook her head.

Ron nodded. Ginny wasn’t having an easy time. With her in fifth year and Neville in sixth, she’d worry about older witches making advances. Such things happened, especially at the start of the year. He just hoped she’d not do something foolish. Neville was a good bloke. He’d not cheat on her, or dump her to get it off with another sixth year. Not if he knew what was good for him.

“She’s not yet in her dorm though. And neither is Neville,” Lavender added.

Ron really hoped Ginny wouldn’t do anything stupid. But he wasn’t about to discuss family matters with a witch who Hermione still called ‘the gossip twit’ if she was feeling particularly annoyed.

“Missing Padma, hm?” She sounded sympathetic.

“Yes.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but not a complete lie either.

“Parvati and I had such plans for sixth year.” Lavender sighed, hunching over a bit.

“Plans to get hexed by Hermione?” Ron asked, before he could help it.

“What? No! Contrary to others, we know her. We have spent five years in the same dorm, you know?” Lavender giggled. “No, we’d have gone after someone who hasn’t the scariest witch of our year as a girlfriend.”

“Together?” Ron raised an eyebrow. Exceptions like his brothers notwithstanding, such things were not as common as rumors made them out to be.

“Maybe. We didn’t get to make concrete plans, you know.” She sighed again.

He couldn’t tell if she was faking it, so he settled for a noncommittal “Ah.” Hermione would make an acerbic comment about having expected the two not to be able to plan out anything, Ron knew.

“What about you?” Lavender leaned forward, propping her chin up with a fist.

“Me?” Ron leaned back. “I had expected to be with Padma. I’d have let her set the pace, you know.” He thought he’d have done that - but if he was honest, he didn’t know how he’d have reacted if Padma had been as distant as she had become in her letters.

“Ah.” Lavender smiled, and Ron had no clue if she was amused, or touched, or thought him a fool.

“It’s moot now.” Padma hadn’t returned to Hogwarts, not even to Britain.

“So, you’re going to see if there’s a snake waiting for you to check the Great Hall?” the witch asked a bit too casually.

He looked at her. He wasn’t the smartest wizard of their year, but he could pick up things. Instead of answering, he asked: “Are you waiting for someone?”

“Does the curfew count?” She grinned, and laid a hand on his knee.

He covered her hand with his, and her eyes lit up. “I’d be a cad to leave you on duty here while everyone else is having fun.”

It wouldn’t be anything but some fun, he told himself. Nothing serious. Just what the Year of Exploration was supposed to be.

*****

Gilderoy Lockhart didn’t like Australian animals. From what he knew, even the muggle ones were all poisonous and rabid. That went double for the monstrosities Jenny and Rubeus were usually raising. If anyone thought the spiders had been horrible, then they would be shocked to discover that there were even more dangerous animals around. At least the Tasmanian Devil had been recovered from his basement, and transported back to Tasmania, so they couldn’t experiment with that particular monster.

“What exactly are you planning to do with that fish?” he asked in Rubeus’s workroom, pointing at a fish that looked like a spiky piece of rock or coral floating in an aquarium. He didn’t really want to know, but he had to.

“It’s a Stinging Stonefish,” Jenny explained. “One of the most toxic muggle fishes. Some say its sting hurts worse than the Cruciatus Curse.”

Gilderoy shuddered. “I’m never going to swim in Australian waters again.” If the muggles knew all about those animals, he was certain they’d evacuate the continent.

“They can survive up to a day on land,” Jenny said, with that bright tone she had when talking about the deadliest animals known to wizardkind.

“Merlin’s ass!” He stared at his friend. “What do you want it for? Another summoning spell?”

“Sort of. Not exactly. They’re not aggressive enough, and not mobile enough. Rubeus thought of crossing them with Manticores, so they could shoot their stingers from their tails, but Manticores are hard to control,” the witch, clad in her usual ‘jungle girl’ robe, explained.

“Not to mention that there’s a ban on experimental breeding of magical creatures,” Gilderoy added with as much sarcasm as he could manage.

“That too,” Jenny said, her tone making it quite clear that this was at most a secondary consideration. “We tried puffskeins, but that didn’t work out. They simply didn’t sting no matter what we tried.”

Gilderoy knew he would never look at one of the little fluffy balls again without shivering. “What exactly are you trying now?”

“We’re working on a spell that shoots the poisonous spiky fins, and nothing else, at a target.”

“Ah.” That sounded almost reasonable.

“But since Hermione said she can’t spare the time to run the arithmantic formulas for us, we decided on another approach. We’re working with the Weasleys on weaponizing the fishes.”

“The Weasleys… ‘Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’?”

“Exactly! They’ve got a lot of ideas on delivery systems.”

Gilderoy, familiar with the two wizards from his time as a DADA professor, nodded weakly. He almost pitied the Death Eaters.

“That said… what are you doing here?” Jenny cocked her head sideways and looked at him. “You rarely visit our workshop!”

“It’s the start of the year.” He sighed.

Jenny looked puzzled, then the knut dropped. “Ah!”

“Yes.” There were simply too many witches and wizards who thought they were suddenly all grown up and ready to seduce a teacher. Namely, him.

“So, you’re hiding here from a bunch of little girls.” Jenny didn’t quite laugh out loud, but she came close.

“Yes. A number don’t take rejections well, and can get quite creative.” Gilderoy would rather not have to deal with accusations of having seduced a student again. Once had been more than enough. To think McGonagall would be so quick to believe such slander… At least the love potions were no problem, these days he routinely checked his food and drink for poison anyway.

“Oh?”

“Anyway, I’m avoiding the school in the evenings, until things calm down.” He sat down on a chair, after carefully checking if anything nearby looked dangerous, or even alive.

“How long will that take?”

“No more than a few weeks, at most.” At least that had been the case in the earlier years.

“I don’t remember you going through that last year.”

“I was a bit more subtle, maybe.” And less shocked by his friends’ experiments.

“Does that mean you only come to visit me to avoid trouble?” She glared at him.

“What? No, no! You know I like to visit you. But I don’t like visiting the dangerous monsters you and Rubeus keep.” Especially the experimental ones that might break out of their cages with new magical powers.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you!” She slung her arm around him and pulled him closer. “They don’t generally bother me in my quarters.”

“That’s because of the drop bear rumour.”

“If they’re not willing to risk a violent death, then they’re not the right kind of wizard for me.”

“How fortunate that I’m risking death each time I visit you then, or so it feels,” Gilderoy said.

“Exactly.”

*****

“They didn’t come out of the Gryffindor dorms at all last night!”

Greengrass sounded like a little witch who had just been told that she wouldn’t get any gift for Yuletide, Pansy Parkinson thought. No, more like one of those spoiled children who didn’t get everything they wished for Yuletide, just half of it. Like Draco, for example. She pushed that thought away. “Don’t tell me you waited all night for Potter,” she said, summoning a basket of scones to her plate.

“I didn’t!” The blonde witch responded, pouting.

“She went to bed at midnight,” Davis added.

“Tracey!” Greengrass exclaimed while Greg chuckled and Pansy shook her head.

Sometimes she wondered if she was the only one from her year who hadn’t gone mad. Well, her and Greg. Potter didn’t count, he had probably been shagging his retainer for a long time already. And Davis… she didn’t know what that witch was thinking.

Though she did notice the odd mood during breakfast. Awkward glances, jealous looks… it would be interesting if she cared for that kind of gossip. Or would still be delusional enough to think those antics mattered outside Hogwarts. Where a war was being waged. She sighed.

“Love trouble, Pansy?” Greengrass asked. “It looks like Weasley has a new girlfriend.”

“What?” She looked up just in time to see Weasley take a seat at the Gryffindor table, with Brown hanging on his arm. “Ah.” She studied the two. Just out of curiosity, she told herself. Weasley didn’t look that smitten, and Brown looked like she was trying a bit too hard. And they were not sitting down with Potter and his retainer, and the rest of the inner circle of the Boy-Who-Lived. Just a fling then.

“She’s moving in on your wizard!” the blonde sitting next to her whispered.

Pansy rolled her eyes at the dim witch. “He’s not my wizard.”

“He won’t ever be yours unless you do something about this!”

Pansy glanced at Davis before answering. “Just focus on your own love life, Greengrass. Leave me to mine.”

The blonde huffed. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Pansy muttered, causing Greg to chuckle.

“She’ll simply do what she did to Patil,” Davis added.

Pansy glared at her. “What did I do to Patil?” If there was a rumor that she was responsible for the Patils’ refusal to return to Hogwarts…

“You’ll train with Weasley, showing how good you are, and jealousy and insecurity will wreck the relationship.”

“I’m not training self-defense with Weasley to seduce him,” Pansy corrected the brunette. She couldn’t deny though that she might have been - in part only though - responsible for some problems between Weasley and Patil. But she couldn’t be blamed for the overreaction of an insecure witch, could she? “I’m training with him because he’s a very good duellist, and that training could save my life - again - one day.” She could see Greg nod at her words.

No one at the table said much for a while after that. Pansy felt guilty for bringing up the memories of that attack on the train, but if her friends and Greengrass didn’t take self-defense seriously, they might be killed in the next attack.

And she’d feel even more guilty if that happened.

*****

“You’re early.”

“I’m doing well. Thank you for asking. How are you?” Sirius Black didn’t quite glare at his friend while he stepped out of the other’s floo, but he came close. It wasn’t the full moon anymore, so there was no excuse for rudeness.

“Sorry,” Remus answered, looking suitably chastised. “The start of the year is always a bit stressful, but it seems worse this time.”

“What happened? Is Harry in trouble?” Sirius looked to the door. He could be in the Gryffindor tower in less than five minutes, as Padfoot. If he had the password.

“Harry is fine. Apart from his patrols as a prefect, he’s been staying mostly in his and Hermione’s room during the evenings,” his friend said.

“Ah.” Sirius was relieved, and grinned. “I guess he’s been kept too busy to do anything else, hm?”

Remus rolled his eyes. “You can ask him or Hermione that yourself.”

“I’ll ask Harry later.” When Hermione was busy somewhere else. The witch might misunderstand and overreact to some of his questions. “So, what has you in such a tizzy?”

Remus sighed. “Just too many additional patrols at night, until things grow calmer. And the whole werewolf hunt going on in Britain.”

“Wasn’t that solved by Albus spreading the rumour that you’re out during each full moon, hunting the werewolf who killed your family?” It sounded like a good idea to Sirius.

“More or less. No one seems to suspect that I’m a werewolf now.”

“Where’s the problem then?” Remus was such a worrywart. Why was his friend glaring at him now?

“People are in a panic. It’s truly a werewolf hunt - in the witch hunting sense.” Remus frowned, making him look even older than he looked. That’s what being a teacher did to a man. And a werewolf.

“The witch hunts almost never killed a real witch or wizard,” Sirius commented. Remus should know this.

“Exactly. The werewolves working for the Dark Lord will be fine - they are already hiding from the Ministry. But the ones like me, wishing to simply live their life? They’ll be in great danger. How many will wait to check if a werewolf has taken wolfsbane and is in control of himself? How many will even care?” Remus wasn’t quite shouting, but he had grown loud.

“Ah.” Sirius understood his friend’s predicament now. “The answers are probably ‘too many’ and ‘not enough’.”

“Yes. 10 points to Black.” Remus sounded more bitter than Sirius expected.

“It’s not just that, right?” He wasn’t the most insightful wizard, but Sirius wouldn’t have had his success with the witches if he hadn’t been able to pick up some nuances.

“No.” Remus sighed and let himself fall into his seat. “With all the usual antics of the new sixth years, I’m reminded each evening that I’m not growing younger, but older.”

Sirius knew what his friend really meant: He was lonely. Or to be more precise: He wanted to be in a relationship as well. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, he realised. All of Remus’s friends were in a relationship. Harry had Hermione - or the other way around. Andromeda and Ted were married, so were Nymphadora and Viktor. And Sirius… well, he wasn’t married but he definitely was in a relationship. Four times over.

“Things will change for the better once we’ve dealt with the Dark Lord.” It was the best Sirius could think of without lying. Remus wasn’t exactly the most sociable wizard.

“Even if I find a witch who’d like me, I’d have to lie to her about my curse. And once she finds out, that’ll be it. So, why even start? Can’t have a relationship built on a lie.” Remus eyed his bottle of firewhisky.

“Well, then look for another werewolf then. No need to keep secrets from her, right?” Sirius said without thinking. But it was a good idea even in hindsight.

“Wha…” Remus blinked. “Most of them fight for Voldemort.”

“Most, not all,” Sirius reminded him.

“And the rest think I hunted them for decades.”

Sirius had no answer to that. “Well… it’s time for today’s training session, isn’t it?”

Remus knew what he was doing, but nodded anyway.

*****

“Any news about the werewolf hoax?” Kenneth Fenbrick asked Bertha Limmington as soon as he entered their shared office.

His partner shook her head. “None. No suspect, no motive.” She pursed her lips. “Most likely it was a trap for Professor Lupin, and whoever laid it fled when we showed up.”

“You don’t think that though.” He knew her well enough he didn’t need to make it a question.

“No. Anyone skilled enough to transfigure a dog into a facsimile of a werewolf could have distracted us with a similar ruse, and attacked Lupin.”

“True.” Kenneth sat down on her desk and checked the files. Bertha briefly glared at him, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t find anything either. Not that he had expected anything else - the whole incident didn’t make much sense. That didn’t have to mean anything, but he couldn’t help feeling that they were missing something important.

“Anything new about Umbridge and Caldwell?” Bertha asked.

“None of the people at the airports, at the Chunnel station, or in the ports spotted them,” Kenneth said, showing the latest reports he had fetched on the way.

“They could have taken a broom and flown to France. Or they could be hiding in a safe house of the Dark Lord,” Bertha pointed out.

“The French have tightened their border security. They absolutely don’t want our war to spill over into their country.” In a more cynical voice he added: “Of course, if the French would have used the resources they spent on border security to help Britain against the Dark Lord, then the war would be over already.”

“Yes.” Bertha didn’t like his conclusions any better than he himself did, Kenneth thought.

“I’ve asked Mathilda to keep an eye out for the two fugitives.” The spy would likely call in Aberforth as well.

“Ah.”

“You sound as if you disapprove. Did I violate a regulation?” Kenneth wouldn’t put it past the Ministry to have some weird rules about informants that no one cared about but Bertha and maybe Bones.

“No. I’m just remembering how our last mission with her went.” His partner frowned at him.

“Oh. Well, we’re not going undercover this time.” When Bertha stared at him, Kenneth blinked and asked in a weak voice. “We are?”

Bertha nodded. “It’s not as if we have a better lead to follow in this case.”

“Great. If we keep this up, then we’ll be lucky not to end up permanently in undercover operations,” Kenneth grumbled.

“At least we’d get to wear different robes,” Bertha said, chuckling. “It gets a bit boring, wearing Auror robes each day.”

Kenneth blinked. Bertha thought wearing regulation robes was boring? He was tempted to ask her to step through the Thief’s Downfall. “I’d not call it boring. And our robes are quite dashing, in my opinion, and in the opinion of several fine upstanding citizens.”

“Auror groupies, you mean,” Bertha said. “Are you afraid you’ll not be able to impress witches anymore unless you’re wearing red?”

“I don’t want to impress those witches anyway,” Kenneth grumbled.

“Oh?”

It wasn’t the moment to elaborate on the reasons for that. “What about you? Do you want to dress up as a courtesan?” Kenneth wouldn’t mind that - his partner looked very attractive in racier robes.

“Anything for the mission, right?” Bertha cited, but her lips twitched into a faint grin. She was teasing him!

“Hmph.” He glared at her, though that seemed to amuse her even more.

He didn’t understand her as well as he had thought.

*****

“Are you certain this is a good idea?” Dolores Umbridge asked, looking down at the small village at the east coast of Norfolk. A muggle village, full of dumb filthy muggles, edging out a living by fishing with primitive muggle means.

The werewolf glanced at her. “We can’t use the bigger ports. That leaves the fishing villages. The Ministry cannot cover each and every village at the coast.”

“We’ll be taking a muggle boat. That’s not safe.” How could you trust non-magical transportation? Everyone knew muggles died by the hundreds each year from accidents.

“All the magical means are under surveillance. It’s muggle, or nothing,” the bitch told her.

Dolores ground her teeth. To lower herself to that… like a mudblood. And for a beast. But she had to, magic demanded it. She didn’t say anything, just looked away.

“Let’s go.”

The village didn’t stink as badly as Dolores had feared. She didn’t even smell fish, despite a small port full of boats. A few of them even looked sturdy enough to survive on the open sea. At least in her opinion.

They didn’t take long to spot a boat with a muggle in it. He didn’t look like a fisherman, Dolores thought. Soft hands, and skin that wasn’t aged prematurely by wind and sun. Now how to best handle this…

“Hey! You!”

The witch twitched when the werewolf simply yelled at the muggle. Fortunately, the dim man didn’t seem to take offense. Few wizards did when talked to by pretty witches, why would a muggle be different?

“Hey yourself.” The man stood up and put down the newspaper he had been reading.

“That’s a nice boat,” Caldwell smiled at him, and Dolores didn’t miss how the muggle straightened with pride.

“Oh, yes. It’s not the biggest, but it got the full range.”

“Oh? Could you reach Norway from here?”

“If the weather holds, theoretically yes. Though it would be a long trip.” The man’s leer told Dolores what he was thinking.

She wanted to kill him for the presumption. As if she’d lower herself to sleeping with an animal! She was a witch! She pulled her wand out of her holster and aimed it at the muggle.

“Imperio!”

*****

Paige Caldwell felt like dying. The boat she was on was being battered by waves that swept over its railing, and the rainstorm - a squall, the muggle claimed it was - had reduced visibility so much, she could barely see the front of the boat - which was called its bow, apparently. She would have managed to stand that, if not for the rolling, and the effect it had on her stomach.

Umbridge wasn’t doing much better. Both of them had lost their breakfast and what lunch they eaten already, but Paige’s stomach still tried to empty itself regularly. She hadn’t cast so many vanishing spells in years.

And the muggle was acting as if this was normal! If not for the Imperius, Paige would have suspected a trap.

Another wave broke over the bow, and smashed into the windows. If they broke… they held. Paige wasn’t that worried about dying - she could always apparate back to the coast, they weren’t that far out yet - but to have to turn back after they had come so far… She growled, and dug her fingers into the armrest of the seat she she was strapped into.

Umbridge was staring at her with wide eyes. Did the witch fear they’d drown? Or fear she’d transform? That would be silly; they weren’t even close to the full moon.

“We’re making good time. We’ll hit the coast of Norway on schedule!” the muggle told them, full of Imperius-induced cheer. It would serve him well, Paige thought, if they sank, and he would be the only not able to save himself. Maybe then he’d not lie to them and tell them they could make the trip easily. Or leer at them.

She felt her stomach heave again, and barely managed to lean forward enough to spit bile on the floor instead of herself. Wincing at the taste in her mouth, she grabbed her wand.

“Scourgify!”

*****

Harry Potter sat down against the wall in the training room and closed his eyes. Sirius and Remus had stepped up the intensity of their lessons, and he felt like he had just completed a full day of Quidditch training under Oliver Wood. The Stinging Hexes he had endured even filled in for the bludgers.

“Hey, you still alive?” he heard his godfather ask. He opened his eyes and saw that Sirius had sat down next to him.

“Barely,” he answered. “Some maniac tried his best to kill me. He looked kind of like you.”

Sirius laughed. “It’s for your own good, Harry!”

The young wizard scoffed. “Of course you’d say that.” Though he knew it was true - he needed intensive training, if he wanted to survive this war. Despite the best efforts of Dumbledore and the Order, he had been attacked several times already, and had to fight for his life.

“Trust your godfather.”

Harry snorted and summoned a coke for himself while Sirius grabbed a butterbeer from the floating cooler. They both watched Remus put Ron through his paces for a while. Hermione had left already, citing the need to continue ‘important research’.

“So…” Sirius finally said, “how do you like the Year of Discovery so far?”

Harry shrugged. “I could do without the invitations and flirting; it angers Hermione.” She was taking it better, and it seemed as if the rest of the school - with the exception of Greengrass - was slowly getting the message that Harry wasn’t looking for ‘some fun’, but it was still a strain on his girlfriend’s temper.

“Merlin! You’re acting as if you’re married already?” Sirius sounded as if he was not certain if he should be amused or appalled.

“If by that you mean I’m not cheating on Hermione, then yes,” Harry said while frowning at the other wizard.

“It’s not cheating if you both do it and it’s in sixth year.” Sirius shook his head, and muttered something Harry didn’t catch.

“Neither of us would do that,” Harry stated.

“What about a threesome?”

“Is that about Greengrass’s invitation?” Harry wondered if and how Sirius had heard about that. It hadn’t been exactly a public conversation.

“You mean you turned down a threesome? With that blonde witch? Granted, she’s a Slytherin, but she looks hot!” Sirius sounded incredulous.

“She insulted Hermione too much in the past,” Harry said, “and even if she hadn’t… me and Hermione don’t want to share.”

“You really act as if you’re married already. Kids these days, they grow up so fast!” Sirius theatrically rubbed the corner of his eye as if he was wiping a tear away.

Harry was tempted to retort with a crack about Sirius not growing up at all, but held his tongue. “You’re not really disappointed, are you?” he asked instead. It was sometimes hard to tell with his godfather.

Sirius took a deep breath, then shook his head. “Not really. I mean, I told you that you don’t have to do anything with anyone in sixth year, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” Far too late in Harry’s opinion, but he had told them.

“So, I’d be a hypocrite if I then expected you not to do what you want. Or what your girlfriend wants.” Sirius smiled softly, his eyes seeming to stare at something only he could see. “James and Lily were different, but they were not together during our sixth year. And even muggles knew what free love meant.”

Harry didn’t really want to hear what - and who! - his parents had done in their sixth year. To his relief, Sirius clapped him on his shoulder, and didn’t go into details.

“Though should you and Hermione ever change your opinion about a threesome, then I expect a detailed report!”

“Sirius!”

Laughing, Harry’s godfather stood up and vanished his empty bottle. He’d never change.

*****

Sirius Black had kept up his facade, joking with Remus and teasing Harry, until he had left Hogwarts through the floor. Once back in his home though, he sighed and sat down next to the floo. Becoming Padfoot, losing all concerns, tempted him. Padfoot didn’t have to think about his life. Didn’t have to question his choices. Didn’t have to wonder if his godson was more mature than himself. But he wasn’t Padfoot. He was a wizard.

“Cherie?”

Valérie had stepped into the entrance hall. The Veela looked concerned. Sirius smiled at her. “Sorry, didn’t want to worry you. I’m just a bit… thinking.”

The French witch nodded, and sat down next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, barely feeling the thin fabric of her house robe.

“Harry and Hermione act like a married couple,” he said after a while. “Which is both tragic and ironic, since they can’t actually marry.” Something he preferred not to think about too much.

“Yes.”

“So, they’re sticking to each other in the Year of Discovery. Even turned down a threesome. With a hot witch,” he clarified for her benefit.

“Ah.”

“Yeah, none of my friends would have done that. The turning down, that is.” That he wouldn’t have done it went without saying. “And yet… I wonder.”

“What do you wonder about?”

“If I should be jealous of Harry or not.” He felt her lift her head from his shoulder. “Sometimes I feel as if I never got out of sixth year.”

“Would that be a bad thing?” Valérie asked, hesitantly.

He sighed, and shifted around, pulling her into his lap. “It depends. Without a care, passionate, free… it’s not a bad way to live your life. But it’s not very… responsible.”

“Mh.”

He buried his face in her hair for a bit, inhaling her smell. “It’s a bachelor lifestyle. Something my prim and proper parents abhorred. Which may be why I found it so attractive. I didn’t want to be proper, didn’t want to be like my parents.” He paused. “But… when all’s said and done, that’s a childish reason.” He snorted. “I’m a grown man, closer to 40 than to 30. I shouldn’t act like a child.”

“Are you ashamed of your life? Of us?”

He shook his head. “Not of you, nor of us, never. But… I’m ashamed that I’m living as if I was still in school, avoiding any hint of responsibility. Doubly so since Harry and Hermione would love to be able to marry, but are not allowed to. It’s as if I’m wasting an opportunity others would give a lot for.”

“You’re thinking of marriage?”

“Yes.”

“To one of us?”

“To you.”

He felt her stiffen, then turn around and wrap her arms around him. He ran his hands over her bare back and kissed her shoulder. “Perhaps after the war?”

“Yes.”

*****

The Hogwarts Self-defense Club training sessions were one occasion Luna wouldn’t complain about the fashion options sixth years had, Ron Weasley knew. Everyone wore heavy robes there, for protection. Though some wore them a bit… less than others. Lavender, for example, had found or altered a duelling robe that would be more fitting to the cover of a robe-ripper novel, so much cleavage was exposed. He wondered how long her newfound interest in self-defense would last. She noticed him looking and struck a pose that drew even more attention to her curves, winking at him. He chuckled.

The two of them weren’t quite a couple, and Ron wasn’t certain if they were even mere ‘friends with benefits’, as Hermione had put it, but they were more than just two sixth years ‘exploring their options together’, to quote Seamus. Or so Ron thought - he wasn’t exactly an expert.

He shook his head. He was here to help the members train and learn, not to wonder about his lovelife. Or anyone else’s. Even if some of the club members seemed to have misunderstood that. Ron did not grin or chuckle as he glanced at Greengrass, who was currently putting ointment on where she had been hit with stinging hexes. Some people never seemed to learn that hitting on Harry before a training session wasn’t a good idea - Hermione had almost trampled over Davis to ‘evaluate’ Greengrass after that. A bit away Ginny and Neville were duelling each other. Neither one seemed to be holding back - Neville needed to be more aggressive, in his opinion. As long as it concerned spellcasting and duelling.

He saw Parkinson approach him, and turned to face her.

“Mister Weasley?”

“Miss Parkinson.”

“Would you mind a quick bout? I’ve already duelled my usual sparring partners.” The Slytherin was wearing a sensible duelling robe and had her wand in hand. Her bodyguard, Goyle, was looming behind her, though without the latent sneer and hostility Ron had been used to from him.

“Certainly. Mister Goyle, would you give the command to start?”

The huge wizard blinked, and then nodded. “Uh, yes.” He paused a second, then nodded. “Bow! Wands ready! Start!”

Goyle spoke quite quickly, and Parkinson was obviously used to that, since she was casting before Ron, who had expected a slower introduction. He dodged her spell easily though, and retaliated with a series of hexes and jinxes, all which were stopped by the girl’s shield. Her own spells fared no better, though Ron had to recast his Shield Charm.

His next salvo boxed Parkinson in, and this time he wasn’t using hexes and jinxes, but stunners. Her weakened shield shattered while his resisted her own spells just long enough to stun her, and she was down for the count.

“Enervate.” Goyle was quicker on the draw than expected. Ron was now quite certain the two, and maybe others, had been training over the holidays. Not as hard as Harry, Hermione and himself, though. But it was certainly more than most others had done, judging by the average performance of the students present.

Parkinson groaned when she opened her eyes.

“You did well,” Ron said. He almost held his hand out to her, but she got up before he could act.

“Not well enough,” she answered.

He smiled at the familiar exchange. Parkinson had the right attitude, even if she was a Slytherin and Malfoy’s ex-girlfriend. A quick glance told him Lavender wasn’t staring at him, ready to make a scene either.

So far sixth year had started pretty well, in his opinion.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort frowned, studying the parchment on his desk. Despite some efforts - mostly of his agents in the Ministry - he hadn’t found any trace of Umbridge and Caldwell. That the Ministry had no idea either was a small consolation. He leaned back in his seat and looked out of the window. In a way, the two witches were still working for him, drawing the attention and resources of the Ministry away from his important tasks. And no one really knew they had fled from him, so his reputation wasn’t in danger either.

But their continued defiance vexed him still. No one escaped the Dark Lord! Not the Potters, not the Boy-Who-Lived, not those two whores. Well, as a last resort he would be able to use Wizarding Britain’s resources to track them down, after his inevitable victory.

Glancing at the latest orb he had prepared, he was certain it would be inevitable. This orb would be able to store more power. Not the whole amount released by the ritual, but significantly more than before. Soon he’d have an orb stable enough to store all of the ritual’s power long enough to strike.

Now if only the wands from Steinberg would work out! They were stable enough to be used for more than a few weeks now - ample time to topple Britain’s government before the wands’ lethal flaws would be discovered by their wielders - but he needed a much safer wand if he wanted to confront Dumbledore directly with a good chance of success. Without more victims for his tests though Steinberg couldn’t make much progress.

The Dark Lord checked his ledgers. Thanks to Hathaway’s gold, he had the means again to hire more wands. Though the continent had proven to be rather hostile to his recruiters. At least the southern countries.

Scandinavia though… the latest hunt for werewolves in Britain wouldn’t have been received well in those lands. Between that and gold, recruiting werewolves shouldn’t be too hard. He summoned Greyback. The werewolf leader was a brutal monster, but he’d do well with the berserkers, and the less civilized werewolves there. And if he didn’t… well, Greyback would have to die anyway, before he realised that Voldemort had no intention to let him spread his disease at will after his victory.

Mad beasts could be useful, but only a fool kept them around longer than they were needed. And Voldemort was many things, but no fool.

*****


	52. Werewolves

**Chapter 52: Werewolves**

Standing on the shore they had apparated to from the ship, Paige Caldwell took a deep breath. Magical Scandinavia. Land of the berserkers. Paige Caldwell had never set foot in it. It was said to be the only country where werewolves were not only tolerated, but valued. Equal, if not more, to wizards and witches. She snorted. There was a reason so few werewolves actually moved there, here. And as the ex-girlfriend of a berserker, one of Scandinavia’s shock troopers, she knew that reason well.

“It’s not as cold as I expected,” Umbridge commented. The witch was eyeing the fjord in front of them as if she thought it was an illusion.

“Did you expect snow and ice all year?” Paige asked, barely keeping the contempt out of her voice. British wizards and witches were so ignorant of Scandinavia!

Umbridge didn’t answer, but her glare told the werewolf that she had hit the mark. She shook her head. “We’re not that much farther north than Scotland, and it’s not yet winter.”

“Have you been here before?” The pureblood narrowed her eyes with suspicion.

“No. But I’ve known a Scandinavian wizard.” Known him very well, in fact. Ejnar had seemed like her dream partner, once. Tall, muscular, handsome, with a blond mane reaching the small of his back, and a charming smile. He had told tales of Magical Scandinavia, and she had listened, in wonder. What a naive girl she had been! Until she had discovered what a berserker truly was.

She shook her head to banish those memories. “We’ll have to travel a bit further, the muggle way.” Even with the ‘skipper’, as he had called himself, obliviated and sent to the Hebrides, they had to be careful to avoid attention on the borders.

“Where are we going?” Umbridge shifted the bag she was carrying and frowned - probably at the prospect of traveling as muggles again.

“Magical Oslo. ” Paige took a look up the fjord, at the muggle village. “There should be a bus.”

“Why don’t we go to one of the smaller villages? Hide in the countryside?” That she was talking about magical villages went without saying.

“Too dangerous. Scandinavia is not like Britain. The government isn’t that strong. The villages are ruled by their gothi or gyðja, their leader. They are usually the leader of the local werewolf pack as well.” Paige saw Umbridge shudder, and grinned. “There are werewolves in all of Magical Scandinavia’s settlements, but the majority of them live in small villages hidden in the wilderness.”

Umbridge looked like she wanted to curse something, or someone. “And Oslo?”

Paige shrugged. Ejnar had scoffed at Oslo, said it was full of weak wizards. “I don’t know that much about it. But I know it’s not likely to be involved in a feud with the werewolf pack in the next village. As a trade centre, it’s considered neutral, sort of, in their feuds.”

“It’s like Diagon Alley?” Umbridge sounded hopeful.

“Probably.”

*****

Magical Oslo was nothing like Diagon Alley, Dolores Umbridge found. There were similarities. Both locations were hidden in the middle of a muggle city, with a few concealed entrances. But where Diagon Alley was the heart of Britain’s commerce, shops lining bustling streets and side alleys, Oslo had stalls and tents arranged around the keep, the old castle housing the local seat of the Scandinavian Ministry, as she understood.

The main difference to Diagon Alley though was the lack of magic, at least in her impression. There were glowing signs, and some of the stalls and shops sported flashy spells to attract customers, but she barely saw anyone in decent robes. Most people’s clothes were lacking the elegant fashions Umbridge was used to. It was all so… so… “Muggle!”

“What?” The werewolf turned towards her.

“This looks like a muggle camp! Look at their clothes!” Dolores nodded at a couple passing them. The only thing that looked magical on them were their cloaks, decorated with embroidered runes Dolores identified as protections woven into the fabric.

“Their robes are enchanted. They just don’t like to ‘show off’ magic.”

“What?” That didn’t make any sense. Why would any wizard or witch want to hide like this, instead of proudly displaying their heritage? They weren’t among muggles!

The bitch was now smirking. For a moment, Dolores hated her,. wanted to curse her, but the feeling was gone at once, the life debt reasserting itself. “It’s because of the werewolves.”

“What?”

“Some of the werewolves were muggles before their change. They can’t cast spells. And since werewolves are held in such high esteem in the country…” The bitch shrugged. “At least that was what I was told by my acquaintance.”

Dolores blinked, shocked. Wizards, lowering themselves, acting like filthy muggles, in order to avoid… did they avoid shaming the filthy beasts out of pity? Or were they afraid of what those beasts would do if angered? “How long do you plan to stay here?” she asked, in a slightly shaky voice.

“Until it’s safe to move on,” the werewolf answered.

“How long will that be?” As if staying in a town where everyone could be a werewolf, worse, a muggle werewolf, and where the decent wizards bowed to the filthy beasts instead of driving them away would be called safe by anyone sane!

“I don’t know. But it’s currently the safest place in Europe for us.”

Dolores doubted that - Scandinavia wouldn’t extradite the bitch, they never did, but Dolores was no werewolf. Scandinavia was far less protective of normal foreigners. She muttered “It’s still not safe enough.”

“Oh, yes,” the beast agreed with her. “You know why they are trying to get more werewolves to immigrate?”

“No?”

“Because there are so many feuds, they always need more bodies.” The bitch flashed her teeth in a cynical smile. “Let’s go and find an inn for the night.” She looked at the keep. “I doubt they offer lodgings for travelers there.”

Dolores looked at the huts and tents outside the keep’s walls. They looked worse than the camp at the World Cup, two years ago. “At least it’ll be cheap,” she muttered. The two of them didn’t have that much money, and Dolores would rather not pick up their old ‘trade’. She was a witch, not a whore!

*****

“Here are the latest formulas, sir.” Hermione Granger passed the stack of paper to the Headmaster. “I think I have managed to reduce the cost of the ritual further.” The equations looked correct to her, but since she couldn’t really test them, Dumbledore looking them over was the second best way to check for mistakes. He had the experience and knowledge to interpret the results and pick the most promising results for her to optimize further. Experience and knowledge she wasn’t certain she wanted to have, and yet longed to have.

While the old wizard studied the sheets - the white paper looked oddly out of place in his office, she realised - she busied herself with her notebook. Or tried to. Her thoughts were wandering. Thanks to Harry’s visions, they knew that the Dark Lord was making progress with his ritual. They still didn’t know what he was planning, but the power of the failed ritual they had observed left no doubt that it would be a catastrophe if Voldemort mastered it.

And her own ritual was ready, as long as one was willing to pay the price the spell demanded. She glanced back to where Harry was reading a book - ‘Wizard Wars of the 20th Century’, a rather pretentious title, seeing as it was written in 1970, or so she thought. Her boyfriend was focused on it. He took the threat seriously, and he was dedicating himself to train, so he could fight if needed. When needed, she added, remembering the prophecy. She looked at his face, the ugly scar hidden by his hair, his bright eyes, the way he licked his lips before whispering a line he had just read to commit it to memory. She loved him, more than anything else. She could save him too, all the materials had been prepared by Dumbledore already, if only she was willing to sacrifice…

“It is not worth it, Miss Granger.”

She whipped her head around, staring at the Headmaster. The old wizard shook his head. “I did not read your mind. Your Occlumency is as superb as ever. But it was not hard to deduce your thoughts from your expression. You are thinking about doing the ritual and paying the price.”

She glanced at Harry. Had he heard? She dreaded his reaction, should he know. He would be hurt, terribly hurt...

Once again the Headmaster shook his head. “He cannot hear us.”

She sighed with relief, then bit her lower lip. “I was just…”

“Miss Granger, it is not worth it.”

“But…” she looked at Harry again.

“Even if it would save his life, would never meeting him again, even after death, be worth it? Would he want you to pay that price?” The Headmaster spoke softly, but intently.

She sighed and slowly shook her head. Harry wouldn’t want this. Not at all.

“You are not the only one faced with such temptation. But as alluring it appears, we have to remind ourselves that some prices are too high.”

“Some are paying them though. Have paid them.”

“Indeed. And I am utterly convinced that they were wrong, and have regretted it ever since.” The Headmaster closed his eyes for a moment, his face showing pain and regrets. She gasped. Had he?

“No, I haven’t. But I knew those who did.”

“The book.” It wasn’t in the room, of course, but she glanced to the shelves anyway.

“Yes.” He sighed. “It is not worth it, Miss Granger. Even if you might consider his life worth the price - and I pray you will never be so foolish - your action would hurt him so badly, so horribly, I would dread what he would become.” His eyes bored into hers. “I trust you understand.”

Shaken, she nodded and wiped some tears off her face with a flick of her wand.

“Besides, your equations so far were fine in my opinion. You’re on the right path - as far as such a ritual can be called ‘right’ - and I’m quite certain you’ll manage to perfect the formula,” he said, smiling encouragingly.

“But will I be done with it before the Dark Lord perfects his ritual?” she asked.

“We can but hope, Miss Granger.”

She had feared that as well. For the next few hours, while Dumbledore checked her formulas, asking questions to clarify a result from time to time and giving advice for the next steps which she noted down, she was once again wondering about religion, and life after death.

*****

Harry Potter watched his lover sleep next to him while the rays of the rising sun crept closer to her face. She was mumbling something he couldn’t make out, but otherwise she looked at peace. Content. Happy. As she should be. As she would be, if not for Voldemort.

He closed his eyes. The next full moon was still weeks away, but he already dreaded it. He was feeling like a werewolf, he thought. He even transformed into a monster, at least in his mind, during the full moon. And no amount of wolfsbane could make it stop. A potion of Dreamless Sleep might prevent the visions, or so Hermione had theorized, but it wasn’t as if they’d ever try that out - they needed to know what the Dark Lord was up to. No matter how painful or disturbing the visions were, no matter how many nightmares he had due to them, Harry wouldn’t try to avoid them. It was the least he could do when Hermione and Dumbledore, Sirius and his girlfriends, or the other Order members were risking their lives in the war.

He brushed a lock of hair that had fallen onto Hermione’s face and caused her to wrinkle her nose in her sleep back behind her ear. She was risking her life, he knew that. He didn’t know how dangerous the ritual she was creating with Dumbledore was, but if it wasn’t dangerous, they’d have finished it by now - or tested it at least. He could ask, but…

He sighed. It was safer not to know too much, even with Occlumency, given his connection to the Dark Lord. Or at least that was a good excuse for not wanting to know what his girlfriend was doing. Because he had a feeling that if he knew, he would try to stop her. And that would hurt her worse than anything else.

“Mhh…” Hermione blinked, still half-asleep.

“Morning,” Harry whispered, bending over to plant a kiss on her brow.

“Morning,” she said. “What time is it?”

He was about to summon his watch when he spotted a big orange furball jumping on the bed. “Time to feed your cat,” he answered instead.

“Crookshanks?”

The half-kneazle meowed loudly, and prodded Hermione’s knee with a paw. The witch groaned and drew her wand. A few spells later the cat was busy emptying his bowl.

“Given his size, he might need a trough instead.”

That earned him a glare from his girlfriend. “He’s on a balanced diet. That’s why I don’t simply have the bowl fill whenever he wants to eat.”

“You end up doing it yourself each time he wants to eat.” Harry snorted when the cat stopped eating and glanced at him. Sometimes he wondered just how much the half-kneazle understood.

“I’m only feeding him in the morning and in the evening, and he knows that well, don’t you, Crookshanks?” Hermione beamed at her cat.

“And at lunch he gets fed table scraps by Ron.”

“What?” Hermione sat up at once, which caused the sheets to slide down, exposing her chest. “I told him to stop that!”

Harry chuckled while he admired the view. “Crookshanks’s pleading eyes are more effective than your angry ones.”

“Hmph.”

He pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t be mad at him. Ron’s not having an easy time.”

She scoffed. “Oh, yes. Handling Lavender must be very stressful.”

“His girlfriend broke up with him without telling him. That hurt him,” Harry defended their friend. Hermione still wasn’t that fond of Lavender, and she rarely spoke of her former roommate without a bit of disdain.

“There’s plenty of other witches he could get to know.” Hermione paused. “They’re not bonding over the Patils’ absence, are they?” She turned to face him, which distracted him for a moment.

Harry wasn’t about to spill his best friend’s secrets, of course. But this wasn’t really a secret. “No. They’re just… not-friends with benefits, I’d say. You know, exploring sex together.”

“Hm.” Hermione pursed her lips. “They might think that, but they could still be falling for each other. As much as people claim it’s all about free love and exploring, I can’t help noticing that there are a lot of couples forming.”

“Short-lived couples,” Harry said. Sometimes very short-lived. Measured in hours rather than days.

Hermione frowned at him, which meant he had made a point. “But Ron’s currently emotionally vulnerable. Lavender could exploit that. You know how she is.”

Harry nodded. He knew how Hermione saw the other girl. Very well even, since she had explained it numerous times. He wouldn’t say that, of course. “Would you prefer it if he was sleeping with Parkinson?”

Hermione chuckled. “Ron Weasley dating Malfoy’s ex…” She grew serious. “I do hope that he doesn’t plan to sleep with her just for that reason.”

“I doubt he plans to sleep with her at all.”

“That’s probably true. Even though she probably would like him to, judging by how eager she is to train and duel with him.” Frowning she added. “Almost as eager as Greengrass is to sleep with you.”

“With us, you mean.”

That earned him another glare. “If she tries to accidentally lose her robe again in training, I’ll accidentally hex her hair off.”

He patted her shoulder, then kissed her. “At least the rest have accepted us.”

Hermione sighed. “They have accepted our relationship. For now. After we graduate, things will change again.”

After Hogwarts they would no longer be children, but adults facing society’s expectations. Harry knew that. “We can deal with that after we have dealt with Voldemort.”

“Yes.”

Both of them were all too aware that they had to survive the Dark Lord first.

*****

Ron Weasley checked the room’s decorations again. The big floating banner was perfectly placed, slowly turning around itself. Its blinking letters spelled out ‘Happy Birthday, Hermione!’, right over the spot where the cake would be. Colourful ribbons were strung from the ceiling to the walls, and the plates had small name signs next to them… had had small name signs next to them, he realised.

He turned to the main suspect. “Luna!”

“Yes?” The blonde witch looked down from where she seemed to be gluing glitter and cork pieces to the lamps.

“Did you take the name signs?”

“Name signs?” Luna blinked.

“The small signs with the names of the guests on them. They were next to the plates.” Ron almost sighed.

“Oh. I vanished them. I thought those were stand-ins for the guests that you didn’t need anymore.” Luna nodded, then returned back to her task of turning the lamps in the room into… whatever she was planning.

“Why wouldn’t I need them anymore?” Ron kept a lid on his temper.

“Didn’t you just need them to lay out the seating?” Luna blinked again.

“Yes.” Ron wondered where she was going with this.

“Now you know it, so there’s no need anymore for them. They took up space we can use for more dessert instead!” The Ravenclaw beamed at him.

He should have known. “The idea was for the guests to find their own places.”

“Oh. But wouldn’t the name signs confuse them? Since they kind of chose their places already.”

The redhead rubbed his forehead. “That was the idea.”

“You want them to be confused? Why not use a Confundus?” Luna looked at him with apparent surprise.

“No… the idea is that we choose where the guests sit.” By now, Ron wasn’t certain if the whole idea was worth the trouble.

“Oh! If we get to choose then I want to sit next to Hermione!” Luna beamed at him.

Ron gave up. “Alright.” Luna was in rare form today. There was no sense in trying to unravel this; he’d go mad before he succeeded.

“Yay!”

Ron nodded at her, and went to fetch himself a butterbeer. He felt he had earned it. Besides, he had a feeling it was better to open it and donate the cap to Luna, before the witch started to collect the caps from the other bottles.

Next to the buffet, where bottles of all kinds, muggle and magical, were floating in a big tub filled with ice cubes, he spotted Harry. His best friend was checking the selection, or so it seemed.

“So, all set?” he asked, summoning one bottle with his wand.

Harry replaced the bottle. “Everything should be set. Gifts, food and drinks. You have the seating straightened out? Luna was pestering me about it earlier.”

Ron groaned. Outfoxed by Luna. If his brothers knew they’d never stop teasing him. “I’ve compromised,” he said, in a tone that hopefully would keep Harry from asking further questions.

“You’re bringing Lavender as a date?” Harry grabbed a can of Coke himself.

“Sort of. We’re not really dating,” Ron answered. “But she wanted to see the muggle party we’re throwing.” They weren’t - not exclusive, at least.

“Ah.” Harry managed to add a lot of meaning into this sound.

Ron frowned at his friend. “What do you mean?”

“Just wondering… you’ve been with her for almost three weeks now.”

“We’ve not been ‘with each other’. We’re simply having fun together. She’s one of the prettiest witches in our year, after all,” Ron said. And he was a Basilisk Slayer.

“Will you keep claiming that you’re not together in a year as well?” Harry asked, grinning.

Ron rolled his eyes. “We don’t hang out much, apart from, you know. Sleeping together.” Harry nodded. Ron conjured two chairs for them and sat down. “How do I explain it… it’s like this: We have sex, but… I don’t really wonder how we’d fare if we’d marry, nor do I think of having kids with her. I’m not planning anything.” Which was the truth. With Padma, it had been different. Ron wouldn’t call it a serious engagement, but when they had become a couple, he had wondered if they’d marry, how long they’d stay together, how their hypothetical kids would looks like. He hadn’t done anything like that with Lavender.

Harry still looked sceptical, or so Ron thought. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Mate, we’re really just having some fun, nothing more.”

“Are you certain she thinks the same?”

Ron chuckled. “Harry, I’m no expert, but I’ve been in a relationship with the twin sister of her best friend. If she was interested in more than fun, she’d act quite differently.”

“It looked like she acted differently in the last club meeting.”

“Well, I needed a witch-shaped shield to keep some snakes at bay.” Not his proudest moment, Ron knew, but it had been getting a bit much, lately.

Harry chuckled - he understood that plight of Ron, at least. “Parkinson didn’t seem to be impressed though.”

Ron snorted. “Mate, if I ever date her, check me for love potions, Polyjuice, and charms.”

Harry laughed, but he also promised. Then the birthday witch arrived, and both went over to greet her, and start the party officially.

*****

“When you said ‘undercover mission’, I expected something else,” Kenneth Fenbrick muttered to Mathilda Smith while he looked around in the living room of the cottage they were currently living in.

“What did you expect? Another night as courtesans?” The courtesan-turned-spy asked from her seat on the room’s couch, where she was reading a book.

“Well, yes,” the Auror admitted. “Instead of playing… bait.” For over a week too!

“We’re not bait. We’re ambushers.” The witch made a swishing motion with her hand, and the book floating in front of her turned a page.

“We’re pretending to be a pair of Aurors guarding a valuable informant in a safehouse in order to attract a raiding party of Death Eaters. That makes us bait,” Kenneth said.

“You’re not pretending. You are a pair of Aurors guarding a valuable informant - me!” Mathilda said, grinning. “You just wanted to see your partner in a courtesan’s robe, did you?”

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

Unfortunately, according to her grin, she considered his silence answer enough. “Have you told her?”

“What?”

“That you want to see her in a skimpy robe. Or out of a robe.”

He glanced at the door to Bertha’s room. The door was thick, so she shouldn’t have heard their talk so far. He would have preferred a privacy spell, but he’d rather be able to hear screams and warnings, given that they were expecting a Death Eater attack.

Mathilda sighed. “You haven’t, have you? Merlin’s balls! I feel as if I’m back at Hogwarts, dealing with stuttering teenagers!”

“Hey!” He wasn’t a teenager, but a veteran Auror. Lots of witches could attest to his experience. And that annoying spy certainly hadn’t been born all experienced and cynical.

“You two are Aurors, and we’re in a war. We’re expecting an attack here, even. What are you waiting for?” Mathilda stood up, pushing her floating book to the side with a gesture.

“That’s why. We’re partners, I don’t want to risk that. Certainly not in the middle of a war.” Who else knew her as well as he did? Anyone else would not understand her well enough, and that could get her killed.

“Rubbish. You love her, and she loves you too. Otherwise, she’d have hexed you into a puddle long ago.” Mathilda sniffed.

“Hey!” Kenneth stood up as well. There was a limit to how much abuse he was willing to take.

“I know you pretty well, Ken. You and your type.” She poked him in his chest. “You spent your sixth year chasing any robe you could, and then tried to keep that going in seventh year. Just Hogwarts, nothing serious, right?”

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” he said.

“Close enough for a Blasting Curse. And afterwards, you always had an excuse not to settle down. First Auror training, then the irregular schedules, the danger… how am I doing so far?”

She took his silence as acknowledgement, and continued. “And now, suddenly, you realise you’ve been a fool. And you’re afraid your past will be held against you. Too many jokes about witches, hm?”

“No,” he growled. It wasn’t like that.

“Then why don’t you tell her?”

“What’s it to you?” he shot back. “Why do you care so much?”

“I like you two, and I think you shouldn’t waste any more time.”

“Ah.” He swallowed the angry accusation he had been about to utter.

“So, are you going to tell her, or should I talk to her?”

“Ah…”

The door to the bedroom was thrown open and Bertha stormed inside. “The wards are under attack!”

Kenneth had never been so happy about people wanting to kill him.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore studied the cottage from his vantage point, on a broom high in the sky and disillusioned. The Death Eaters had taken the bait. Fooling the mole in the Ministry had been easy, but he hadn’t been certain the Dark Lord would be fooled as well. Or consider a ‘valuable informant’ worth the attack - though hinting at her being a werewolf apparently had done the trick. Half a dozen Death Eaters, attacking the wards.

He raised his omnioculars to his eyes and checked again. Even with the nightvision granted by the enchanted device, he couldn’t see anyone else. But six wasn’t enough for such an attack - the Dark Lord’s wands liked overwhelming odds, usually. He’d have to lay down Anti-Disillusion Jinxes over the area. Those had a rather close range, so he would have to expose himself as well. Better him though, than Iva and her family, or Mathilda. And the two Aurors, maybe. They had grown on him like fungus.

He touched the pin on his robe and whispered: “Attack once you see me cast.” Then he put the broom in a dive and descended on the Death Eaters, wand out. He aimed at the Death Eaters attacking the wards first - Curse-Breakers were a priority target.

“Confringo.”

The earth under the three Death Eaters in the front erupted, throwing them around like ragdolls. While the backlash from the wards ripped into them, he was already casting Anti-Disillusionment JInxes over the area near the house. Iva and her band of broom riders were on the move as well, cutting off the escape of the Death Eaters with Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey Jinxes while closing with them.

When he felt his disillusionment fade, he pulled up at once, corkscrewing to provide a more difficult target. Green curses cut through the night, but none came close to hitting him. Someone who could cast that many Killing Curses should be able to aim better, Aberforth thought. He shouldn’t be complaining about his good luck, but something was not right here.

He sent another Blasting Curse towards the unknown dark wizard, followed by another Anti-Disillusion Jinx, then banked and dove down again. His spell revealed another half dozen Death Eaters, all shielded and casting madly - and faster than he had expected.

Spells flew from the cottage, ripping into the Curse-Breakers still twitching from the ward backlash. More flashes to the sides of the cottage told him that Iva and her wands were engaging the remains of the first Death Eater group. One of the Greek mercenaries flew a bit too low and became visible. He didn’t evade quickly enough, and of the half a dozen curses shot at him, one clipped his broom, blowing it up. The man - Deion - crashed into the ground, and before he could get up or cast anything, he was hit by a Killing Curse and dropped dead.

Aberforth flew towards that second group again, sending more spells at them. One Blasting Curse exploded in their midst, but to his surprise, their shields held, and more curses flew at him. He pulled to the left, and dove behind the cottage, touching the pin again. “Be careful! They seem to be more skilled than we expected.”

“I noticed,” came the terse answer from Iva. “We’ll get them though.”

The girl was bent on avenging her cousin, Aberforth realised, and cursed under his breath. He wouldn’t be able to face Lea again, if her granddaughter died under his command. But with all those Killing Curses thrown around, the air was rapidly becoming too dangerous.

He landed and shrunk his broom while making haste to the front of the cottage, towards the dark wizards holding out. His Blasting Curse had at least destroyed their cover and thrown their formation off - and they hadn’t reformed yet. Again, a weird lapse for wizards able to cast so many dark curses in so little time… the Dark Lord must have improved his cursed wands again, he concluded. He addressed his allies once again: “They can cast very well, but they are not too experienced.”

Then he turned around the cottages corner, left the wards, and attacked again. Three piercing curses ripped into the first wizard’s shield, shattering it. The fourth was stopped by the man’s robe. He was already recasting his Shield Charm, but Aberforth had managed to hit him with a curse before the shimmering blue field surrounded the Death Eater again, and the dark wizard started to boil alive inside his shield while his blood heated up. Apparently, the wands didn’t bestow the knowledge of counter-curses.

His attack had given his position away though, and the remaining five Death Eaters did their best to avenge their ally. He barely managed to raise a wall made of earth to block several Killing Curses and a variety of other dark spells, and his own shield was battered by fragments from the exploding wall. He transfigured the debris into another wall, which was rapidly crumbling under the assault from dozens of spells as well. How fast could they cast?

Aberforth conjured five metal disks, each large enough to hide behind, and fell further back. If he could reach the cottage and its wards… It was a long dash behind him though, and he wasn’t young anymore. He could die here, easily, he realised. Killed by a bunch of fools wielding cursed wands.

He snarled, and banished the remains of his latest wall towards the Death Eaters, peppering their shields, but more importantly, distracting them long enough to transfigure the debris around them into a dense cloud of dust. Another flick of his wand added a green gas to the mix. He wasn’t the alchemist Albus was, but he knew enough to get by.

He didn’t have to ignite the dust cloud - one of the Death Eaters did that himself, setting off the dust explosion. The Death Eaters vanished in a giant fireball, and the shockwave almost knocked him down. Above him, Iva’s broom riders were blown back by the force of the explosion, but didn’t look seriously hurt.

“Oipho! What was that?” Iva asked through their link.

“Just a bit of applied alchemy,” he answered.

The fireball dissipated, revealing the remains of the Death Eaters. None of them were moving, though only one of them looked crushed and burned. Aberforth and Iva’s wands lost no time ensuring that even if the dark wizards were still alive, they’d not be able to fight on. Behind them, the two Aurors and Mathilda emerged from the cottage.

“Two of them are still alive, and we captured two more trying to flee,” Iva reported.

Aberforth nodded. They had the prisoners Albus had wanted. He dug around for a vial of Veritaserum in his robe’s pocket. The scum needed to be interrogated, and fast, before their knowledge about the Dark Lord’s plans and orders became obsolete.

*****

“So, Voldemort has made even better cursed wands than he had, and Greyback has left Britain for an unknown destination, on the Dark Lord’s order,” Albus Dumbledore summed up Aberforth’s report of the information he had gathered from their prisoners.

“Yes. He’s become better at keeping his secrets - or all of his wands who knew more are hiding, or dead,” his brother said. “I’m betting on the last. We hit him hard, and crippled his recruiting attempts.”

Albus nodded. He wouldn’t state it with such pride or certainty, but the Dark Lord had lost many of his followers. “But to send Greyback away… leaving his most dedicated followers, the werewolves, without their leader. That indicates a rather important task.”

“He was pretty quick to launch an attack on the supposed location of an informant when we hinted that it was Caldwell or Umbridge. Maybe he sent Greyback to hunt the two down.” Aberforth shrugged. “That monster will surface sooner rather than later. He’s too violent to keep a low profile.”

“Indeed. So… where would Voldemort send him? Where would Greyback fit in, and not draw our attention and subsequent attempts to neutralize him?” Albus smiled.

Aberforth scowled. “Always the teacher, are you? Even if talking to people who haven’t been students in decades.”

Albus would have liked to remark that wise wizards and witches never stopped learning, but his brother was already rather angry, and wouldn’t appreciate such advice. Instead he spread his hands in apology. “I am sorry. Old habits die hard.”

Aberforth scoffed. “Don’t bother. I don’t expect you to change, or care. So… you think Greyback is in Scandinavia?”

The Headmaster nodded. “Since the Dark Lord has extensively recruited werewolves, helped by the general attitude towards them in Britain, it would make sense for him to recruit more of them - especially since Scandinavia has no lack of experienced fighters among its werewolf population. Further, with them actively encouraging immigration by werewolves, a number of them have British roots, and might wish to return to fight against a country that all but threw them out.”

Aberforth scoffed. “It’s not as if werewolves have a monopoly of being mistreated and scorned. That’s no excuse for joining the Dark Lord.”

Albus didn’t take the bait. His brother was a bit too protective of his shady friends, but reminding him of it would only cause a row. “It was not meant as an excuse, but as an explanation,” he said instead.

“Of course,” Aberforth said, his tone belying his words. “So… do you want me to hunt him down for you?”

“Have you been in Magical Scandinavia before?”

Aberforth shrugged. “Once, a few decades ago.”

Albus would prefer to have Aberforth in Britain, considering the most distressing news about those new wands Voldemort was using. To think they were so powerful as to give his brother trouble… But on the other hand, letting the Dark Lord swell his ranks with werewolves, experienced werewolves even, would be far worse. Especially, if those new recruits received those new wands as well. He nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Alright. Time to bag a bounty.”

*****

Paige Caldwell scowled when she returned to the tent she and Umbridge were renting. Ejnar had never mentioned just how expensive Oslo was. It was certainly far removed from the rural, simple life portrayed in all the stories werewolves heard. If not for buying muggle food and stretching it with charms, they’d have gone broke already. And they could only afford that thanks to the money they had taken from the muggle owner of the boat that had brought them here. They could keep stealing from muggles, if things became desperate, but they wouldn’t be able to keep doing so forever.

She passed a werewolf on the way - the fur on his outer robe identified him as such, just as the heavy gold chain he was wearing made it very likely that he was a gothi, a village leader. Paige was wearing fur on her robes as well - it felt very nice to see others defer to her, even if they were just wizards.

“Are you looking for a place to belong?”

The question from the gothi surprised her. “Pardon?”

“You look and smell like a foreigner. Are you looking for a place to belong, a pack to join?”

When she had first met Ejnar, she had thought his direct, blunt manner was attractive. No beating around the bush, no veiled insults. She knew better now. The manners were different, but people were people.

“I’m still trying to get acclimated,” she answered, in a hopefully respectful and polite tone without appearing weak. “I haven’t decided yet if this is the country for me.”

“You’re a werewolf. We are the progeny of Odin’s wolves. Where else would you be at home than here?” The man mustered her. “Our kind is persecuted in every country but this one. It’s a safe haven for you, and for your children.”

“I don’t have children.”

“You will, sooner or later. It’s your nature.”

Paige didn’t agree, but contradicting the pompous wolf would serve no purpose. “I haven’t decided yet where I want to live,” she said again.

“Once you do, send me a message,” the man said, “I’m Snorre Bloodclaw.”

Paige acted as if the name meant anything to her. Apparently satisfied, he nodded, and walked away. Bloodclaw… she had no idea if that was a small village with delusions of grandeur, or a powerful pack. There were just too many small villages and communities in this country.

“I’m back,” she said, when she entered their tent.

Umbridge looked up from the table in the middle, where she had been reading a newspaper, nodding at her. It was almost a civil greeting, considering the circumstances.

Paige saw the witch was reading the Daily Prophet though, and she growled. “Didn’t we agree that buying the Prophet is too dangerous?”

“I didn’t buy this issue. I found it,” Umbridge claimed.

Paige wasn’t certain if she believed that, but there was no way to disprove it, so she growled once more, and then started to place the food she had bought in the pantry. “We’re running out of money,” she said when she had finished.

Umbridge shrugged. “We will have to find work then. As primitive as the people here are, it shouldn’t be too hard to find well-paid employment.”

“They’re not primitive. They’re just different,” Paige said. “They claim their customs - forn sidr - are ancient, dating back thousands of years.”

Umbridge scoffed. “Everyone knows the norsemen came centuries after Merlin.”

“To Britain, maybe. They did not exactly appear out of thin air,” Paige argued.

“They might as well have,” the witch shot back.

Paige didn’t feel like arguing. “We still need money. We can’t keep stealing from muggles, sooner or later the local government will catch up.”

Umbridge, to Paige’s surprise, nodded simply. “And what kind of work do you have in mind?”

The werewolf shrugged. Most of the work offered was menial, and badly paid - like waitressing. The better paid work was usually offered to friends and family, not foreigners. Probably, she thought with a touch of paranoia, to make more werewolf immigrants join a village. “There isn’t much of a selection for us, and half of it we can’t or won’t do.”

Umbridge nodded. The British Ministry was looking for two courtesans, after all.

“So, that leaves one kind of work, always in demand.”

*****

“Stupefy!” Pansy Parkinson shouted while dodging under Weasley’s Disarming Charm. While the red spell flew towards her opponent - and would miss, she could tell - she sent a few more spells at him as well, each time shouting the incantation. She promptly followed them with a whispered Disarming Curse.

Unfortunately, her opponent had either expected such a ploy, or was lucky - Weasley’s shield collapsed under the jinxes and hexes that hit it, but he was running, and the Disarming Charm went wide. Snarling, she sent another stunner at him, not bothering to shout now, but he had recast his Shield Charm already, and the stunner was absorbed.

Trusting her own shield, she suddenly charged ahead, directly at the redhead, and kept casting. The closer they were, the less they’d be able to dodge. It wasn’t a valid duelling move - but in a real fight, anything went.

If that surprised Weasley, then he didn’t show it. He kept casting at her, and started to circle her - or tried to. Her shield flared with the impact of another stunner, and was about to break when she jumped at him.

Both Shield Charms crashed into each other, and shattered, and then Pansy was smashing into him, just like Greg had taught her. Her left hand sought his wand while she drew her own back, to point-cast. He caught her wand hand, at the wrist, and managed to pull his own out of her reach. He couldn’t cast that way though, and she kneed him in the groin - only to find out that his robe had special enchantments to protect that area. The pain flaring up in her knee made her yelp, and distracted her enough so Weasley could make her drop her own wand, and point his own at her head. He didn’t cast though, just grinned.

“I win.”

“You win,” she answered, panting from exertion, and baring her own teeth in a grin.

For a second, the two stared at each other, still caught up in their duel. Pansy licked her lips, suddenly uncertain what to say.

“Are you going to make out here on the floor?” Greengrass’s dumb question broke the spell, and Pansy rolled off Weasley.

“Good fight.”

“Indeed. You surprised me and almost had me.”

Pansy snorted. “I’m certain you had a few more tricks up your sleeve.” She knew just how sneaky the twins were.

“Maybe.” He stood up and offered her his hand. She was tempted to stand up without his help, but that would have been rude, no matter how much she wanted to.

She would duel Greengrass though, right after she had recovered from this bout.

*****

“It’s quite cold here,” Dolores Umbridge commented. She wasn’t freezing - her robes protected against colder temperatures - but the contrast to Oslo was surprising. Or maybe not that surprising, seeing as they were deep in the central forests of Scandinavia.

“Still no snow though,” the werewolf said.

They had taken a portkey to a small village, where someone was said to be recruiting wands for a small campaign. The sums bandied around in Oslo had been enough of an incentive to visit despite the distance - someone had deep pockets. And it would allow them to see just how life was in those magical villages.

So far Dolores was not impressed. Small, wooden houses, clustered around a big one - a longhouse, Paige called it - with wooden statues depicting the norse gods in front of or at least near each entrance. Carved wooden statues, without any magical enhancement. Primitive.

“The meeting is in the longhouse. The gothi, the village leader and packleader, will be there.” The werewolf said.

Dolores snorted. “And the recruiter?”

“Will be there as well. Though I suspect they are one and the same.”

Dolores scoffed. “I doubt anyone living in such a hovel could afford such rates.

The bitch frowned at her. “You’ve been here for weeks, and you still can’t see past appearances?”

Dolores glared back, then looked away. “If they have so much gold, why don’t they improve their homes before conquering another?”

“Habit. Tradition. They could have improved their homes too, just not as ostentatious as you’re used to.”

“Hardly.” She wasn’t ostentatious at all, Dolores thought.

The bitch shook her head, but dropped the argument. “Let’s go inside”.

The longhouse looked as primitive inside as it looked from the outside. They were even cooking a deer or something over an open fire - Dolores thought she could count herself lucky they didn’t expect their guests to eat raw meat.

“We won’t starve at least,” the witch said. Of course the beast would be hungry, especially with the full moon approaching.

Dolores scoffed again. The longhouse was filling up, and as far as she could tell, most of those inside were not from here. “I wonder why they didn’t hold the meeting in Oslo.”

The werewolf shrugged. “There are many possible reasons. Too public, maybe, or too close to the muggles.”

“That’s two, not many.” Dolores said.

The bitch growled briefly, then managed to control herself and utter: “Let’s sit down. It should start soon.”

They sat down at the next free spot at the long table. Dolores was stared at by several wizards and witches, and stared back until they looked away. “Primitives”, she muttered once again.

“Rustic and traditional,” the other witch corrected her. “We’re growing closer to the full moon, and we’ll be quite aggressive.

“I know.” Dolores was about to comment on the time when she noticed that the werewolf was sniffing the air and growing tense. “What’s wrong?”

“I know this… damn! We need to get out. Now!” She got up and pulled on Dolores’s hand.

“Why?”

“I know that werewolf there. He was with Greyback.” the werewolf said.

Before they reached the door, it was opened from the outside, and a huge figure dressed all in black filled it out. “Greyback….” the werewolf whispered.

“Paige! And Umbridge! The Dark Lord will be so pleased!” the infamous werewolf leader crowed. “Take them!”

With mercenaries behind them, and a monster in front of them, blocking the way out of this trap, Dolores didn’t hesitate. Her wand whipped up and she sent a Piercing Curse right at Greyback.

The old werewolf was not so easily hit though. He dropped to the floor, the spell going wide, then jumped at Paige as if both were already transformed. Dolores was about to move into a better position to hex the beast in the back, when more werewolves entered.

“Avada Kedavra!” Her Killing Curse hit the first, and he fell down, dead.

That didn’t stop the next one, who cast at her. “Diffindo!”

Dolores felt the spell hit her, but her robe stopped it, before she blasted the werewolf and half the door to pieces. “Bombarda”.

The door and werewolf were blown away in the explosion, but the walls and roof held. Another werewolf was on the ground, dazed. The way was free to escape!

She turned to Caldwell, who was grappling like a muggle with her foe. The two werewolves were rolling over the floor, biting and clawing at each other. And the locals, as well as other visitors were standing up and moving towards them.

They had to flee, now, or they’d be killed!

She aimed her wand at Greyback, but she couldn’t cast without risking to hit Caldwell by accident - and that would have been unacceptable. Greyback had no such troubles though, and one of his blows hit Caldwell’s head, driving it into the stone floor and dazing her. Then he charged at Dolores.

“Diffindo! Confringo!” The witch fought desperately, but the Cutting Curse was absorbed by the beast’s robe, and he ducked under the Blasting Curse, cast at an angle so it would not threaten Caldwell.

Then he was on her, driving one fist into her stomach. Dolores was thrown back several yards and fell to the ground. Pain filled her abdomen. She saw him raise his blood-covered claws, and realised it was her blood. She was bleeding. Heavily. She couldn’t die though. She had to save Caldwell!

She didn’t try to get up, she simply pointed her wand at Greyback.

“Imperio! Stand still!”

The monster froze, claw still raised.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The green spell hit the werewolf, and he collapsed. Dolores smiled, blood running down her lips. She was hurt worse than she thought. But Caldwell still needed her, even though she was getting up, because the mob that had been formed was still there, and might not remain passive much longer.

“Umbridge! You’re bleeding!”

“I know,” she managed to say, struggling to stand up. Caldwell pulled her to her feet just as the crowd started shouting.

“She used two Unforgivables!”

“She killed Greyback!”

“She violated Hospitality!”

Dolores blinked, feeling light-headed. Caldwell had to get away, had to reach the edge of the Anti-Apparition wards on the house. But she’d never make it with Dolores dragging her down and a mob behind her.

There was a way to solve both problems at once though. “Run!” she gasped. “Run and apparate!”

The stupid werewolf tried to grab her instead of fleeing. She had a simple solution for that as well.

“Imperio! Apparate away!”

Caldwell turned and started to run. That seemed to galvanize the mob to rush forward.

Dolores smiled while she pointed her wand at the ground next to her feet. Her debt would be paid.

“Bombarda Maxima!”

*****


	53. Blood and Ashes

**Chapter 53: Blood and Ashes**

The Dark Lord Voldemort was enraged. Fenrir Greyback dead! Killed by a traitor even! He threw the Daily Prophet down on his desk and took a deep breath. He couldn’t let his rage rule him. He was a wizard, a genius! Not some animal ruled by emotions, like werewolves. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to calm down.

It was no catastrophe. Greyback had become far too impulsive, far too demanding lately. Far too arrogant as well. He would have had to be disposed of soon anyway. And his death at the wand of a British witch would be laid at the feet of his enemies. Especially with the way the Daily Prophet celebrated it. The werewolves would blame the Ministry, not a dead witch.

But that didn’t solve his need for more people. Or Monsters. Curse fodder. The mercenaries on the continent were too cowardly, or too greedy. They thought he was losing the war, and demanded outrageous rates, and would desert him at the first opportunity. Even Hathaway’s gold wouldn’t go far in those circumstances.

He could create more Inferi, but that was not just time-consuming, but required corpses. Fresh corpses. Unlike Grindelwald, he couldn’t use muggle corpses either - without a muggle war in Europe to hide his actions, the ICW would become involved if he gathered enough muggles for an army of inferi. Or tried to smuggle Inferi created in Africa to Britain.

He could send the Dementors out, but that would mean they’d have less impact when he needed them to scare his enemies into hiding behind their wards. And after they disobeyed, he had lost his trust in them.

No, the Scandinavian werewolves were still his best bet. Numerous, aggressive, quick to fight, and disposable. He would have to send out one of the more reasonable werewolves in his ranks to take up Greyback’s mission, but… something more might be needed to drive up recruitment. The Scandinavians were outraged at the treatment werewolves received in Britain, but so far their responses had not been much worse than in the years before the war. Harsher laws alone didn’t seem enough to prod them into action, and the death of a foreigner might not be enough either. They might, in private, even welcome such measures, since it tended to drive up immigration.

Voldemort would have to create a reason to not only outrage, but enrage the beasts, if he wanted them to flock to his banner. He paced in his office, thinking. Animals were ruled by their instincts. And there was one instinct dominating them.

Smiling, the Dark Lord sat down at his desk again. He had plans to make.

*****

_The longhouse exploded behind her. Stone fragments and wooden splinters hit her, knocking her down. She tried to get up, to flee, to reach the edge of the anti-apparition wards, but her legs would not respond. Then the pain and blood came. Her left leg was crushed beneath a severed beam, pinning her in place. She was bleeding from several wounds and her right eye wouldn’t open… or was gone. Her wand… she needed her wand!. It was lying on the ground just beyond her reach, no matter how much she stretched. Just when she touched it with the tip of her fingers, a boot came down on it, breaking it and crushing her hand. She was still screaming in pain when the boot smashed into her chest, breaking her ribs. Again and again, until she was coughing blood and struggling to breathe._

_Then she heard the howls. Werewolves. It wasn’t the full moon… But why hadn’t she transformed? The howls grew louder, the wolves were coming closer. All that blood must be driving them into a frenzy. They would… they would…_

Paige Caldwell woke up with a scream. Another nightmare. She was shaking, and told herself that she hadn’t been caught. Hadn’t been killed. The longhouse had exploded, and that had kept the others from pursuing her. She had managed to leave the village, and apparate away.

She closed her eyes, sitting up on the bed of the muggle vacation home she had broken into a few days ago until she didn’t feel anymore as if she had been running for hours. She was safe, the werewolf told herself. No one knew where she was. No one would find her.

But she was hurt. The wounds she had suffered in her fight with Greyback hadn’t healed yet. Despite the potions she had used. The bandages were bloody again, though less than the day before. A cleaning spell fixed them up.

She stood up and padded on bare feet to the kitchen. There was still some food left in the muggle ice box. But that was it - the house had no pantry. Sooner or later she would have to go out and find some food. But more importantly, she would have to prepare for the full moon. She had no Wolfsbane left, and if she ran free while transformed, she’d be caught.

Sitting down and munching on canned meat, she shivered. If not for Umbridge, she’d be dead. The witch had sacrificed herself for Paige. And now she was all alone.

*****

“Good day, Mister Perriwinkle and Miss Grey.” Albus Dumbledore nodded at the two Hit-Wizards standing guard outside the office of the Minister for Magic while he entered for his meeting with Cornelius and Amelia. “Hello, Cornelius.”

“Albus! Have a seat. Some tea?” The Minister stood up to shake his hand, then summoned a tea service from the table in the corner of his office. He had lost some weight, Albus noted, but looked healthy otherwise. And confident.

“With pleasure.” Albus pointed at one cup, and it filled and floated towards him, hovering at his side. Before he could take a sip, Amelia entered as well. The Head of the DMLE looked determined, but stressed. Unsurprising, with so much of the war effort weighing on her shoulders.

“Cornelius, Albus.” The witch nodded at them both and sat down. “So, what did you want to discuss?” she asked the Headmaster, obviously unwilling to partake in idle chat.

He could oblige her. “I have concerns about the policy towards werewolves in Britain,” Albus said. “The growing hostility against them, born from the rather paranoid fear of those unfortunate individuals affected by the curse, keeps driving many of them into the arms of Voldemort. The laws that were recently passed do make the situation even worse.” ‘Protective custody’ was the term used in the proposals, but it effectively meant that any werewolf could be locked up if they represented a danger to the public - which just about everyone did, according to the law.

Cornelius lost his smile. “Albus… the public demands action. They are afraid of those dark creatures, and would lose faith in the Ministry if we ignored their concerns. The scandal in the Wizengamot shocked many people - if not even our parliament is safe, no one is safe.” The Minister spread his hands. “If the Ministry does nothing, the people would hunt them down themselves. You know how ugly that would turn, especially in the middle of a war.”

Albus knew that, very well, but he shook his head. “And yet those laws and policies create and perpetuate the very problem they are supposed to address. They help the Dark Lord far more than they protect the public since they facilitate his recruiting efforts.”

Amelia was frowning. “Werewolves are among the most numerous followers of the Dark Lord, and responsible for many crimes and atrocities. Even before those new laws were passed, they flocked to him.” She looked straight at him. “I do not deny that those new laws make the situation worse, with regards to that, but at the same time, they allow us to prevent werewolves from joining Voldemort.”

“By locking them up as if they already were criminals,” Albus said.

Amelia had the grace to flinch slightly, but she didn’t budge. Albus hadn’t expected her to. She wouldn’t break or ignore the law. Not for werewolves. Cornelius was generally more flexible, but he also craved the approval of the public. The Headmaster sighed. “There’s also the international situation to consider.”

That made Cornelius’s eyes widen. “The Scandinavians? What have you heard from your man there?”

Albus didn’t bother correcting the Minister’s assumption that his envoy - Aberforth would curse him, should he hear that - was responsible for the demise of Greyback. And his brother was currently in Scandinavia. “Not surprisingly, the Scandinavians are very concerned, even outraged, about the recent changes. This despite the fact that more British werewolves have started to emigrate.”

“Cursed werewolf pets,” Cornelius muttered under his breath. Louder, he said: “They have been ‘outraged’ about our treatment of werewolves for decades. Is there any chance they’ll actually attack us?”

Albus shook his head. “Unless things grow even worse, I doubt it. For all their bluster and eagerness to do battle, the Scandinavians haven’t been involved in a war since Grindelwald, and their forces lack the experience our Aurors and Hit-Wizards have. Although individuals will be moved to join the Dark Lord in an attempt to strike back at what they see as us oppressing their kin.”

“We can handle a few more werewolves fighting for the Dark Lord,” Amelia stated. “More than a few, even.”

Albus knew she was correct, but Britain would also lose more witches and wizards. And in battles that could be avoided. “While I do not doubt the skill and courage of our wands, I also think that it would be better if they didn’t fight battles that could be avoided with a more gentle touch towards werewolves.”

Amelia frowned. “Too many Werewolves swelled the Dark Lord’s numbers even before the latest laws restricting them were passed. They’d still join him even if we repealed those laws right now.”

“We’d be seen as weak, and animals attack the weak,” Cornelius added, shaking his head. “Once the Dark Lord and his followers have been dealt with, we can take another look at those laws. With that threat to Britain gone, the people will be more receptive to such changes.”

“Though we’ll not let any supporter of Voldemort escape justice.” Amelia’s expression clearly told Albus that this time, unlike after the end of the first war, there wouldn’t be much if any leniency. He couldn’t help but wonder whether things would be different if the Dark Lord’s followers were still mostly composed of pureblood wizards and witches. No, Amelia was not the most gentle or merciful witch, but she was no bigot. She would uphold the law, no matter what.

Sighing, he stood up. He wouldn’t succeed with his proposal. “Well, I still think this is a mistake, but Cornelius is correct, we cannot afford to show division right now.” The Minister had said something else, but Albus didn’t think he’d correct him.

But once Voldemort was beaten, those laws would be repealed. Albus would see to it.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort, using polyjuice to disguise himself, wandered through Diagon Alley. If those sheep knew that the Dark Lord himself walked among them, able to snuff out their pathetic lives without effort… He passed two red-robed Aurors on patrol, giving them no more care than the two children staring at the Quidditch Supplies’ display. They mattered about as much to him. Even if he should be revealed, the odds of the Ministry’s forces being able to stop him, much less kill him, before he could leave were slim. Only one wizard was close to his equal, after all. And the old man would not rush into action - the incident at Hathaway’s had shown that. Voldemort would have ample time to leave.

But he wasn’t here for a mere demonstration of his power. He was here to implement his latest plan. He couldn’t trust anyone else with this, of course. Not even his Bella. As devoted as she was, she was a bit too impulsive for this kind of task. Too passionate where a cool head was required. He smiled, knowing she would be waiting anxiously for his return.

Then he drew his wand. To someone looking at him, it would appear as if he was using it to levitate a snack next to his head, and playing around with it a bit. In reality, the cauldron cake was charmed to react to his wand’s movement, masking his casting. Another charm would carry his whispers to a target’s ear.

Smiling broadly, he started to cast.

“Imperio!”

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick watched the clock on the wall on their office. Still another thirty minutes until their shift ended. He felt a bit nervous. This evening, he’d confess - talk to - his partner, Bertha Limmington during dinner. About his feelings for her. The two had started to take their meals together more often. He didn’t remember how it had begun, but lately, they ate dinner together more often than not. And they didn’t talk about business nearly as often. A good sign, the Auror thought. Even or especially if Bertha made fun of him.

Ten more minutes. He wasn’t quite biting his nails, but he was using his wand to banish crumpled paper aeroplanes at flying paper aeroplanes.

“Are you bored?”

He glanced over at Bertha, who was dutifully writing their report of today’s investigation - nothing suspicious found in the shop they had searched and buried the slightly guilty feeling. “Just target practise,” he said, with a cheeky smile. It had once impressed an instructor enough to let him get away with having slacked off, but more often, it had caused him additional trouble.

Bertha shook her head and sighed. “I’m certain that if we’re attacked by paper aeroplanes, you’ll rise to the occasion without trouble.”

He wasn’t certain if she was angry with him or not, but that had been a joke. Grinning, he answered: “Oh, some of those aeroplanes are dangerous… they carry orders, or worse, summons to a meeting!”

“You’re not really using official memos for this, are you?” She asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Well…” He wasn’t, of course, but it was fun to fake it.

The alert interrupted him. Bones’s voice rang through the entire floor. “All Wands, report to the floo central. A mob is attacking the Werewolf Holding Centre!”

“Merlin’s balls!” Kenneth cursed as he jumped to his feet and ordered his robe closed with a flick of his wand. Just five more minutes… He glanced at his partner, whose earlier mirth - well-hidden of course - had been replaced by the cool professionalism everyone else thought was her real self. She briefly nodded to him while opening the door. Duty called.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort smiled when he saw the Werewolf Holding Centre getting pelted with spells from several dozen wizards and witches. He hadn’t imperiused even half of them; the rest had followed them on their own. That would make the whole incident look even more convincing.

Though a mob just attacking the building wasn’t enough for his goals. He needed more. And he would provide it. Disillusioned, he started on the wards. The building was new, and the wards were still weak. Barely above those of an average home. He broke through them in a minute, then turned his attention to the main entrance. The doors were spelled to resist damage, but once again, not strong enough. His Blasting Curse blew them away and showered the guards and employees behind them with splinters.

A roar went through the mob, and the first rank started to advance. A Hit-Wizard stepped into the breach, wand flashing. One of the first attackers fell, bleeding. Voldemort smiled widely - he couldn’t have planned this any better. He killed the guard with a Piercing Curse, then shouted: “Get the werewolves and the werewolf lovers!”

The mob took the cry up, and surged forward. Voldemort dropped his disillusion spell and led a dozen of them to the holding cells. He had a fire to start.

*****

When Kenneth Fenbrick stepped out of the Floo connection in the Werewolf Holding Centre, he heard screams and explosions, and smelled smoke. It looked like part of the building was burning. The Auror cursed. “How could a mob have broken through the wards so quickly? Was everyone asleep on their post?” He moved to the door, after a squad of Hit-Wizards who had, in their typical fashion, charged ahead.

“Unlikely,” Bertha Limmington said, stepping to his side. Both ignored the shaking clerk at the wall. He didn’t look like he could remember his own name right now, much less provide useful information.

“Which means, there’s bound to be a couple of wands in this mess who know how to fight.” Kenneth ground his teeth. They could either hit everyone who pointed a wand at them as hard as possible, possibly killing a few idiots who just followed the rest, or they’d risk getting killed themselves after underestimating a dark wizard or witch. Great.

They left the Floo room, and entered a madhouse. He couldn’t see where the Hit-Wizards in front of him had gone. Several bodies lay on the ground, Both Ministry employees and civilians. The stench of smoke grew stronger, and Kenneth realised that it smelled like burning flesh. “Merlin…”

“They have reached the holding cells then. We have to hurry.” Bertha looked grim - for her.

Kenneth nodded, and turned to the Aurors and Hit-Wizards behind him. “Let’s go!” As expected, the Hit-Wizards behind him charged ahead. Probably trying to show up the Aurors. Kenneth didn’t mind. Better them than him when it came to soaking up curses.

Their ad-hoc group descended the main stairs, where another body lay. That had been a werewolf, or had been mistaken for one - at least Kenneth hoped the mob wouldn’t have treated a Ministry guard like this.

The entrance to the cell block was partially covered by smoke now, and the screaming had grown louder - and more desperate. Kenneth cast a Bubble-Head Charm. He didn’t check if Bertha followed his example; she would have done it already. From ahead, spells flew at them, one striking the shield of a Hit-Wizard.

“Death to the werewolves and the werewolf lovers!” someone screamed so loudly, he must have used an Amplifying Charm. A dozen voices took up the scream though.

Jenkins, a new Auror, muttered: “Hecate have mercy! There are children in there!”

One of the Hit-Wizards fired a curse at the entrance, and muttered: “Cubs you mean.”

Kenneth didn’t think it was funny, but half the group laughed. Then a dozen screaming civilians charged them, and no one was laughing anymore.

He cast a Piercing Curse at one wizard wildly sending curses at them, and his spell went straight through the man’s shield, hitting him in the shoulder. His follow-up stunner hit as well, but so did a Cutting Curse from Jenkins.

The other charging idiots didn’t fare any better. The Hit-Wizards didn’t even bother with stunners, and the Aurors in their group were obviously not taking any chances. “Bloody mess,” Kenneth muttered. “Jenkins, try to save the ones still alive. The rest of you - charge!”

They entered the cell block, and Kenneth felt as if his blood froze in his veins. That was no ordinary fire, that was Fiendfyre! Someone had cast Fiendfyre on the cells closest to the entrance, and it was making its way through the cells. The cells holding werewolves! Children among them! They were screaming, begging for help, but Kenneth knew they couldn’t stop the cursed fire in time to save them. Just then, the fire entered another cell. The two men inside pressed themselves against the bars of the door in a futile attempt to escape. The flames reached out to them, set them ablaze, and they screamed as they burned to death.

“We need to get through the wall from the other side!” Bertha yelled, shaking Kenneth out of his daze.

“Yes!” Kenneth grabbed two Hit-Wizards. They’d not be able to do anything against the fire anyway, but they’d be able to blast a wall just fine.

The small group ran up the stairs again, then towards the main entrance. It had been blasted apart from the outside and the two guards there - grey-robed Hit-Wizards - had been killed. That hadn’t been the work of those idiots they had just taken down.

Kenneth was panting when they stopped at the other side of the building. Bertha glanced from one corner to the other, then pointed her wand at the wall in the middle. “Aim for this point.”

Kenneth nodded. He trusted his partner to pick the right spot. She was a Ravenclaw through and through.

“Confringo!”

“Reducto!”

The two Hit-Wizards had hesitated, but followed their example.

“Reducto!”

“Bombarda!”

The wall was solid, and not all the wards strengthening it had been dissolved. It took three salvoes until it was breached. At once, smoke started to rise from the hole, and they heard screams. Kenneth charged ahead this time, jumping down to the cell block’s floor. The fire had claimed two more cells on each side. Eight more people dead. He didn’t want to think of how many had already burned to death. He had to save the living. “Reducto!” His spell blew the door off the cell closest to the fire. The two witches there, ran out, shaking and in panic. “Levitate them up!” he yelled at the Hit-Wizards while aiming at the next door.

Bertha opened the cell on the other side. “Alohomora!”

So the cells hadn’t been spelled against the Unlocking Charm. Kenneth would have complained about the lax standards, if he hadn’t been busy opening the remaining cells. Soon two dozen werewolves, five children among them, were crowding the end of the cell block’s hallway, trying to climb up while the Hit-Wizards pulled them up with Levitation Charms on their clothes.

And the Fiendfyre was getting closer. Kenneth could feel the heat now. “Why’s it advancing through stone and metal?” he asked while casting Aguamenti. Bertha joined him. The water didn’t do much, but it slowed the fire down somewhat.

“It must have been cast by an exceptionally strong wizard,” Bertha explained, and Kenneth thought he detect more than a hint of fear in her voice. He took out his broom and was about to unshrink it. She stopped him though. “It’ll create a stampede towards us.”

“We’re running out of time,” he said as the fire filled another two cells. Behind them, two werewolves had grabbed the children and thrown them up. Another was pressed against the wall, giving the rest a leg up. Half a dozen remained, and the fire was closing. The hole was too small, he realised. And the wards on the wall prevented them from transfiguring it to create stairs.

Two more werewolves were pulled up, one was levitated. Three left, and Kenneth and his partner. The fire reached the last cells, and started towards them. Kenneth unshrunk his broom, grabbed Bertha, and mounted it. As he started to fly up, he saw that the werewolf at the wall was just pushing up the last one to safety. Kenneth didn’t look when he raced up, to the hole, barely evading the tendrils of flame reaching for him and Bertha.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

He glanced back and saw Bertha had managed to lift the last one, the one who had pushed so many others up, right before the flames would have reached him.

For a moment, Kenneth was elated. They had done it! Then he saw the threadbare robe of the werewolf rip. The tattered remains flew towards Bertha, still pulled by her spell, while the man started to fall. He was swallowed by the blaze that was now filling the entire cell block before he could scream.

*****

Kenneth landed on the grass, near the rescued werewolves. It was far enough from the wall that he didn’t feel the heat anymore. He felt devastated. To fail at saving that man, who had saved so many others, hit harder than failing to save all those poor bastards who had burned to death, trapped in their cells. They had been so close… he was certain he’d not forget the expression on the man’s face as he fell to his death for a long time.

Bertha was feeling worse though, he could tell. She was a perfectionist, she would be berating herself for not repairing the man’s robes before levitating them. Even though that would have cost so much time, the Fiendfyre would have reached him before she could have cast the Levitation Charm. And yet she would still blame herself for failing to save the man.

Kenneth didn’t think, didn’t say anything, he simply reached out, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her into his arms. His partner made a surprised sound, but didn’t push him away, or protest. She leaned into him, and shuddered.

The moment didn’t last though. A shout cut through the crying from the children and the mumbled attempts of the older werewolves to console them. “Stop!”

Kenneth looked up saw one of the Hit-Wizards was pointing his wand at a werewolf who had started to walk away.

The man snarled. “What? You’re going to lock me up again so I can be burned to death? Wasn’t that enough for you?” He gestured at the burning building.

The Hit-Wizard blinked. “We saved you!”

“Saved us so you can lock us up again?” Another werewolf shouted. The children cried louder.

Bertha pushed away from Kenneth, her face expressionless again. This was turning ugly. Uglier.

“You can’t just leave!” The other Hit-Wizard was covering the other werewolves, but they started to spread out.

“Why not? Haven’t you killed enough of us?”

“We saved you, we didn’t kill you!” The wizard moved towards his partner. Doctrine when faced with a wandless opponent was to gain distance. But there were a lot of wandless werewolves. And they were moving.

“Calm down! This was the work of criminals, not of the Ministry. They broke in and killed you and the guards,” Kenneth said, hoping to defuse the situation.

“It was you who locked us up! We never did anything to you!” a woman spoke up, holding a girl. “And now half my family is dead!” she shouted, tears running down her cheek.

A girl started to run, away from the building. Kenneth tensed, but he couldn’t cast at the girl. He glanced at Bertha. His by-the-book partner was hesitating as well. That more than anything else told him that his gut was right.

The girl didn’t get far, a red spell - a stunner - from a Hit-Wizard struck her down. And set off the werewolves. Half of them started to run away as well, scattering. The other half roared and charged the Hit-Wizards - and the Aurors.

“Confringo!” Kenneth sent a blasting curse at the ground between the werewolves and him and his partner. It drove them back, but not for long.

Bertha was casting as well, stunning a young werewolf trying to flank them. There were too many though. Two more were running at them, and another was coming at Kenneth. A stunner took that one down, and Bertha conjured a quick wall to block the two on her side.

The majority of the werewolves though rushed the Hit-Wizards who had cast at the girl. Before Kenneth’s eyes the two disappeared under the mass of the attackers. He couldn’t help them though - enough of the crazed werewolves were attacking him and Bertha.

The two Aurors fell back, using transfiguration, stunners and conjured obstacles to keep the werewolves at bay. He tried to apparate, but someone must have cast Anti-Apparition Jinxes over the area. Kenneth pulled his broom out. If they could fly up, they’d be safe.

“Bombarda Maxima!”

The earth under the werewolves pursuing him and Bertha exploded. The Shielding Charms of the two Aurors protected them, but their wandless attackers were shredded. Kenneth looked up and saw two Hit-Wizards on brooms, just as another Blasting Curse hit the next cluster of werewolves. He was about to shout at them to stop, then he saw the remains of the two Hit-Wizards who had been with them and knew it would be futile. Hit-Wizards were not Aurors. They weren’t trained to take risks to stun instead of kill. And after seeing two of their own dead on the ground, they wouldn’t even try.

Instead he stunned the closest werewolf, and then the next. It was all he and Bertha could do.

He didn’t see the reporter and the photographer covering the whole massacre until it was over.

*****

At breakfast in the Great Hall, Remus Lupin stared at the Daily Prophet’s front page. ‘Werewolf Holding Centre Attacked!’. The pictures in the article beneath the headline showed bodies. Lots of bodies. Hit-Wizards, Ministry employees, wizards and witches. They didn’t show the dead werewolves though. He was certain they would have been shown, had they been transformed. But outside a full moon, werewolves looked like normal wizards and witches. Were normal wizards and witches. And the British public wasn’t supposed to see that.

He read the article, and felt bile rise from his stomach. A mob stormed the building and set the cell block afire. Dozens had burned to death, trapped in their cells. Helpless without their wands, they would have been forced to watch their doom approach. The lucky ones would have suffocated from the smoke before the fire reached them. The others… he closed his eyes for a moment, fighting to control himself. It was still a few days to the full moon, but he felt his temper changing already. And this… there had been children in that prison too. Children whose only ‘crime’ had been to be bitten by a werewolf. Like he had been.

He looked at the House tables. The students were clustered around those who had subscriptions for the Daily Prophet, as usual when there was big news. He saw Harry look at him, concerned, and nodded, trying to reassure the boy that he was holding up.

It was difficult though. If his secret had been revealed, if his curse had been exposed, then he could have been in one of those cells, burning to death. Killed by a mob who saw him as a beast. He felt both anger at that, and shame that he was hiding in his own, privileged position while others with his affliction suffered.

He returned his attention to the article. ‘Werewolves used the opportunity to escape from custody’, ‘measures taken to capture them before they endanger others’. And speculation that the ‘mob’ was actually made up of imperiused victims of the Dark Lord, used in an attempt to break out the werewolves so they could fight for him. Bloody fools! He was almost growling with frustration and anger before he checked himself. He couldn’t lose control. Not now, not here.

The professor glanced at the editorial and ground his teeth. It was a thinly-veiled call on the Ministry to hunt the werewolves down with lethal means. He threw the newspaper down and stood up. He had to get out. Calm down. Vent his rage. Whatever. He couldn’t stay there.

On the way out, he overheard one fourth year Gryffindor say: “I’m certain the Professor will hunt those werewolves down!”, and he almost ran from the Great Hall to his quarters.

Sirius was already waiting there, in his favorite armchair. “Morning, Moony.” His friend wasn’t smiling.

Remus closed the door and cast a privacy charm on it. “You’ve read the Prophet.”

“I did. Nasty business.”

“Yes.”

There was no offer to ‘talk about it’. Nor did Sirius try to calm him down. His best, his only real friend, simply was there while Remus raged, vented, and hit the walls of his room with his fists until his hands bled and he was exhausted his rage spent, for now.

Just like his friend had been there for him, as Padfoot, in the Shrieking Shack.

*****

Hermione Granger worried that her boyfriend would not be able to keep his temper under control as so many of their fellow Gryffindors ranted about ‘dangerous werewolves’. She understood, of course - the bias against werewolves was a stain on Wizarding Britain. One of many, sadly. She would have called the caste system the worst stain, but with children being killed just for suffering from a curse, and the public applauding, she was hard-pressed to uphold that.

Katie Bell made a remark about being afraid with so many beasts free, and the full moon so close, and she felt Harry tense up. Maybe she should cast a privacy spell that kept outside noises out next time.

The witch leaned over, brushing her lips against his ear, and whispered: “If only they knew that one of their most popular teachers actually was a werewolf.”

He turned his head, brushed his lips over hers and whispered back: “They probably would try to drive him out, or kill him.”

She hated to agree with him, but did it anyway, nodding while she pursed her lips. “They’d try.”

They’d succeed, of course - if they formed a mob. Which was rather likely. She understood the fear of werewolves. Without Wolfsbane, they were murderous beasts under the full moon, craving human flesh and blood. And if a victim survived, they’d be cursed themselves. A truly insidious cycle. And no one could forget that werewolves were the Dark Lord’s most numerous supporters, proving to be murderers even without transforming, as the Hogwarts Express Massacre had shown all too clearly.

And yet they were victims. Of a dark curse, and of society. Hermione could understand that some of them would want to lash out against a people who shunned and reviled them. But she would never excuse or forgive anyone who joined a monster who wanted to murder people just for being born to the wrong parents.

She summoned a scone from a floating basket and took another sip from her orange juice, charmed to look like pumpkin juice. At the end of the day, it was simple: Anyone who helped Voldemort was her and Harry’s enemy. And she would deal with those enemies.

*****

Harry Potter exchanged a glance with Ron. There were far more people waiting for the Hogwarts Self-Defense Club to start than usual. A product of the werewolf scare, no doubt. He didn’t quite feel the urge to curse half his house as strongly as during breakfast, but he still resented them. So much ignorance! So much bigotry! As if every werewolf wanted to join Voldemort and murder people. He knew he was being unfair, somewhat at least. There had been a lot of werewolves among those who had massacred students on the Hogwarts Express, but that didn’t mean every werewolf was like that. He took a deep breath. He wouldn’t get angry again. If Remus could control himself, only a few days from the full moon, then he could do the same.

“Blimey! Remus will hate this.” Ron shook his head. Harry shot him a glare. His friend coughed. “So many new students. He’ll be swamped with work.” It wasn’t the best recovery, but it’d do.

“We’ll be swamped too,” Harry commented. To change the mood, he added: “You’ll not be able to flirt with Parkinson as much as you usually do.”

“What?” Ron gaped at him.

“Did I say ‘flirt’? I meant ‘duel’, of course.” Harry grinned.

“She’s one of the few witches who actually takes training seriously, and doesn’t try to flirt with me,” Ron said, narrowing his eyes.

Harry scoffed. “Please. You act completely different when you’re duelling her than when you’re duelling me. Or anyone else.” If Ron were to act like that with Hermione...

“Of course! Different targets need different tactics.”

“That’s what you’re calling it in sixth year, I see.” Harry felt his mood lift a bit. Teasing his friend was helping. “And Brown has been seen with Katie lately.” Who was quite scared of werewolves, he knew.

Ron rolled his eyes. “It’s not as we’re a couple. We’ve just had some fun. She didn’t move in with me.”

Harry coughed. “Anyway, more teaching, less ‘duelling’ today. At least during the session.”

His improved mood was ruined again as soon as he saw Remus and Sirius arrive though - his godfather looked much too serious to be alright. Which meant, seeing as Harry himself had no real trouble, Remus was not doing well.

And Harry had no idea how he could help the man.

*****

Ron Weasley kept glancing at Pansy, at Parkinson, while Remus explained about the best ways to deal with werewolves. He could understand why Harry thought he was flirting. Somewhat. The Slytherin witch was cute, kind of. When she wasn’t sneering. And she had been brave during the attack on the Express, everyone said that. But she also had been Malfoy’s girlfriend for years. Which meant she had either terrible taste, or no brains, or both. And she was a Slytherin. On the other hand, she had dumped the idiot. Eventually.

Duelling her was fun though. She wasn’t quite as good as Hermione, but she knew how to fight. And she didn’t try to flirt with him - she took training seriously. It still was fun though.

The witch started to look around, and their eyes met. She seemed surprised for a moment. Then she grinned, before looking away and paying rapt attention to Remus, as if she was one of the idiot girls who thought he was so romantic because they believed he was hunting the werewolves who killed his family each full moon.

Ron wondered, while Remus went over things he already knew, if he should ask the witch out. Just to mess with Harry. He wouldn’t have to feel guilty about using the girl either - they were in sixth year, after all, and such things were expected. Hermione would not approve, of course. She would lecture him. Maybe - the girl was awfully busy with Dumbledore, when she wasn’t studying, training, or sleeping with Harry.

And yet he hesitated. It was one thing to sleep with Lavender. Both of them knew it wasn’t serious, and they were not just both Gryffindors, but also close friends to the Patils. Or had been. But to do the same with Parkinson? He couldn’t say why, but he knew that was different.

And he’d duel her again, Harry’s comments be damned. It was fun.

*****

While the students started to filter out of the room, the lesson ending, Pansy Parkinson thought Ron Weasley was acting weird. First he glanced at her, then he ignored her. If he wasn’t sleeping with Brown and they were not in sixth year, and a Gryffindor, she’d thought he had a crush on her and was simply shy.

In any case, the lesson - or session - had been quite informative. They learned several ways to battle werewolves. Professor Lupin was an expert in that area, and it showed. Though Pansy was not really certain if she truly believed that the mild-mannered man hunted werewolves each month. Though he had been a Gryffindor as well, and such actions would fit the mould.

But with all the werewolf drills, she hadn’t managed to duel Weasley, and to her surprise, realised she had been looking forward to it more than to learning how to deal with werewolves. She frowned. She wasn’t about to let some werewolves keep her from what she wanted. Instead of following the rest of her house out of the room, she made a beeline towards Weasley.

“We haven’t duelled yet today,” she told him right away. Not the best display of manners, but acceptable given their surroundings.

His eyes lit up, and whatever puzzlement she had seen in his eyes before vanished. “Indeed, we haven’t, have we?” he answered while he drew his wand and waved to the duelling platform in the middle of the room.

Pansy smiled at him, and nodded, taking the lead. Potter mumbled: “Not again!”, and his retainer gave her a look that probably should have been intimidating, but Pansy didn’t care. Life was too short to worry about everyone and their opinion, and she had a duel to win.

They waited until all of the students but Potter’s friends, and of course Greg, had filed out. Or would have, if Greengrass and Tracey hadn’t decided to stay as well. Pansy licked her lips in anticipation. She had been thinking about a few ways to pull one over on the Gryffindor.

Potter and his mistress were whispering, until Weasley and Pansy had taken up their positions. Then they quieted down. Lovegood, unsurprisingly, had to be elbowed by Antar to stop commenting on ‘Nargles’, and Greengrass… was sulking after her latest proposal for a threesome had been refused. Potter had become rather skilled at that, even though his lover still looked like she wanted to transfigure Greengrass into a toad each time the blonde twit made a pass at them.

Then Potter stepped forward. “Bow!”

Pansy smiled - a formal duel! Even better! They bowed.

“Wands ready!”

Her wand rose into the ‘guard’ position. She grinned at her opponent, and was once again matched.

“Start!”

At once Pansy conjured a wall in front of her, not to protect her, but to shield her from view. She moved to the side and managed to cast a Shield Charm and a Disillusionment Charm before the wall was reduced to cinders and dust by two Reductor Curses from Weasley. Still, she should have enough time to…

“Homenum Revelio!”

She felt more than saw herself become visible again, but she was already casting. If Weasley had taken the time to reduce her wall, he couldn’t have… he could! Her stunner splashed harmlessly against his shield. In response, she was hit with a Disarming Charm that almost pushed her off her feet despite her own Shielding Charm.

Pansy shrieked as if she was scared, and mumbled “Serpensortia”, conjuring a snake behind Weasley. If she could fool him… he banished the rubble of her own wall at her, and he shield shattered under the impact.

She retaliated with another stunner, but he dodged it - and he spotted her snake before it had reached him! A Cutting Curse split it in twain, but left him open for another spell. Finally, his shield went down, and she dodged his own stunner… only to suddenly slip on a patch of ice that hadn’t been there before and fall off the duelling platform, on the stone floor. Hard. Then his next stunner hit.

When she was woken, she hurt much less than expected. Someone - Granger probably - had treated her bruises. Weasley offered her his hand to help get up, and she took it.

“Technically, Parkinson won, since Ron cast at her when she was already outside the ring, which in a formal duel is an immediate disqualification, if done so unprovoked,” Granger said. Potter agreed with his future concubine, but Pansy simply shook her head while she looked at Weasley. She knew that their duels wouldn’t be decided by technicalities.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort rose from his bed, taking care not to wake up his lover, when the Snowy Owl arrived at his window, carrying the latest newspapers from Scandinavia. He dropped a few sickles in the pouch of the owl, then let her fly off again and took a look at the headlines.

They were perfect. ‘British mob massacres children!’ ‘Werewolves burned alive in prison!’ ‘Britain starting to exterminate werewolves!’ The pictures were beautiful too. Dead children on the ground, fleeing werewolves cut down from above and behind, ragged prisoners blown up by Blasting Curses, and horribly burned corpses. All of them werewolves. He read the articles, and chuckled. Where the Daily Prophet of the day before had focused on the dead guards and a possible plot by the Dark Lord, the Nordic newspapers focused on dead werewolves, and speculated about the government letting the mob enter the prison to kill the werewolves.

“Milord?” Bella had woken up. His lover rose from their shared bed and walked over to him, not bothering to put on any clothes.

“Good news, Bella.” He handed her the newspapers. “All is going according to plan.”

She glanced at them, then smiled, before her face fell. “I wish I could have helped you.”

He shook his head as he lifted her chin so she’d face him. “You are the only one I can trust, my love. With my secrets, and my life.” She was the last of his inner circle. The last of his old comrades. Brave, powerful, and utterly devoted. She was irreplaceable.

She would stand at his side once he ruled Britain. His Bella.

He wiped the tears from her eyes and kissed her while he guided her back to his bed.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore felt like cursing his brother when he glanced at the headlines of the newspapers sold in Oslo. Couldn’t he keep his Ministry under control? How could a mob from Diagon Alley’s flotsam storm a prison? Had the Ministry workers forgotten to guard and ward the place?

If Greyback was still alive and the news of his demise not true, then his mission just became far more difficult. Judging by the comments he overheard from passersby reading the newspapers, they were ready to form a lynch mob. At least he wasn’t known as a British wizard - he was traveling incognito due to the results of his first visit, decades ago. With his beard and hair dyed, he looked younger, or so he thought. He could only hope there were no other British around; the locals’ blood was up.

At the next corner, a wizard who was literally frothing at the mouth, gesturing wildly and shouting about the need to ‘save our brethren in Britain from certain death’ - and many seemed to agree with the sentiment. Hopefully, most of that was mere bluster, and not an actual willingness to travel and fight in Britain’s civil war.

Though Aberforth knew from personal experience just how prone to violence Scandinavian werewolves were. And everyone knew how much they hated the rest of Magical Europe for considering werewolves dark creatures. And so did their part to keep the stereotype alive.

And since the idiots back home had decided to let a bunch of ‘respected citizens’ burn werewolves alive, the Dark Lord would have an easy time recruiting them for his ranks. He shook his head and made his way to the public Floo connections. He needed to know if Greyback was actually dead. And if there were more agents of the Dark Lord left. Greyback hadn’t been known for traveling without a pack, after all.

An hour and a few galleons later, he was standing in a small, old village surrounded by forests. The central longhouse, meeting spot for the community, was in ruins - a result of the fight between Greyback and ‘British agents’, or so he had heard in Oslo. The wooden statues depicting the gods supposedly watching over the communities were still or again standing, not that the gods had done a good job.

A group of locals was watching him, openly and with suspicion in their eyes. Understandable, given that apparently two foreign witches had broken hospitality and attacked Greyback. Though of course, that was simply what he had heard.

He started towards the ruins, which caused the group of ‘observers’ to to cut him off and stop him. He let them - for now.

“Hey! What do you want here?” the apparent leader, clad in traditional Scandinavian clothes, said.

“I’ve heard two witches caused this,” Aberforth said, waving at the ruins. “I believe they are fugitives with a bounty on their head.”

“You’re a bounty hunter?” the man asked, sneering.

For a moment, Aberforth was back in 1962, when he had visited the country for the first and, until this visit, last time. For all their claims of worshipping some nebulous ‘hunt’, they hadn’t taken well to him chasing one of Grindelwald’s old lieutenants through the Nordic country. And he hadn’t been patient enough to avoid needless fights. It had been a rather bloody affair.

That had been decades ago though. Aberforth had changed since then, even if the culture in Scandinavia hadn’t. He nodded. “I’m under contract.”

The men - probably all werewolves, they looked rather uncouth, although all Scandinavians looked like that in his opinion - tensed up. The leader said, sneering: “One of them is already dead. The other’s fled. We won’t tolerate anyone causing trouble, do you understand?”

The old wizard nodded. “I’m not looking for trouble. Just looking to see if that article told the truth. I don’t suppose the bodies are still around?”

“No.”

Aberforth hadn’t expected anything else. They would have been burned on a pyre too. “Did anyone see the witch who fled?”

The leader nodded. “Many did.”

The British wizard pulled out a picture of Caldwell and Umbridge. “Did they look like this?”

All three peered at it, then discussed something in their native language, before one of them spoke up in English. “Yes, they did.”

“And the younger witch escaped?”

“She bled, but the other witch sacrificed herself to stop us, after killing Greyback.”

Aberforth’s opinion of the village sunk even lower. Umbridge and Caldwell were not exactly powerful witches. “I see.”

“She apparated away,” the leader added, as if to excuse their failure.

The third, who had been silent so far, suddenly spoke. “You’re not British, are you?”

“No.” Aberforth said and glared at the man. “I’m from Greece.”

“But you’re working for the British. Who else would have put a bounty on the two witches?”

He didn’t like the turn this talk had taken. “Would that be a problem?”

“Hell, yes! We hate the murdering British bastards!”

“Child killer!”

“Hang him from the sacred tree!”

As Wands were drawn and Aberforth was about to teach the three a lasting lesson, he still blamed his brother for this predicament.

*****


	54. Samhain

**Chapter 54: Samhain**

One of the three wizards charged at Aberforth Dumbledore with a yell. Definitely a werewolf, the old wizard thought, so close to the Full Moon he would have trouble thinking like a wizard instead of a beast. The other two tried to flank him, one on each side. They were used to fighting together, he realised, while he conjured a wall in front of him that blocked both the werewolf’s charge and the spells from the other two.

He used the time that had won him to disillusion himself and move to his right. Not many wands expected an outnumbered opponent to move towards them, in his experience. He was just at the edge of the wall when the closest of his opponents went over it.

That was a surprise, but a welcome one. While the werewolf seemed to sniff the air, Aberforth cast a Piercing Curse to shatter his shield, and a Disarming Charm to take away the man’s wand. The werewolf was screaming with rage when Aberforth vanished the ground under him, sending him falling into a pit, then closed the hole with with a conjured rock.

Right then a number of curses flew at him though - his own casting had given away his position, and the one wizard on his right had not hesitated. The other would clear the corner of the wall soon as well.

He dodged two spells, but a third hit him, causing the protections on his robe to flare up, spoiling his attempt to move out of the man’s line of fire while remaining invisible. And the other was starting to cast as well now. Still, not particularly well-aimed, even considering his disillusion spells. He threw a Blasting Curse at the ground in front of the closer enemy and banished the debris at the man with a flick of his wrist, shattering the man’s now weakened shield and sending him reeling.

Sadly, that had allowed the other one to hit him, and his robe’s enchantments were weakened further. With the other villagers getting alerted by the sound of combat, Aberforth was rapidly running out of time - Nordic villages were almost always ready to repel raiders, given their frequent feuds. No doubt the result of letting werewolves run them.

The old wizard started to run, causing the next spells to miss widely, and cast a pair of Cutting Curses at the wizard still staggering from the debris that had battered him. One was stopped by the robe, the other cut him across the chest. He collapsed while blood splattered on the ground.

That distracted the last opponent enough so Aberforth could dispatch him with a series of Bludgeoning Curses while he was trying to reach his friend. The man was thrown into the still standing wall, then slid down in a broken heap.

The fight hadn’t taken long, but it had caught the attention of the rest of the villagers, who were rushing out of their homes with wands ready and shields up. They had a better response time than some Hit-Wizards back home, Aberforth thought. And there were too many for him to deal with. Not that he needed to deal with them in the first place. After this, he couldn’t expect the locals to talk to him anymore, and fighting more wouldn’t serve any point. Still invisible, he started to run towards the edge of the village.

He heard barking dogs and shouts he didn’t understand, but which probably meant they were trying to find him. They didn’t spot or stop him though, not before he reached the edge of their wards and apparated away.

*****

_He smiled at the beast chained to the altar. She had been easy prey, a werewolf on the run, close to the full moon. No one would miss her. Not his own werewolves, in any case. The Ministry was searching for her, but they’d find her… later._

_Unlike other sacrifices, she wasn’t struggling, but sobbing into the gag. Tears were running down her cheeks, and he saw his lover bend down and wipe them off with a smile before caressing her hair mockingly. He smiled indulgently. His Bella had earned this, she had been so eager and grateful to help him with this part._

_The moon was rising, and the animal was trembling. Bellatrix ran her wand over the beast’s robe, leaving small cuts. It wouldn’t do to destroy all hints to her origin, after all. Then the moon rose above the hill, and the bound beast started to transform._

_He placed the orb he had prepared, then drew the knife and waited. It wouldn’t be long, now, until the sacrifice was ready._

Harry Potter was panting, feeling nauseous. Despite all the rituals he had now experienced, it still sickened him to see through Voldemort’s eyes, feel as if he was that monster, as if he was murdering a helpless girl. Hermione handed him a wet towel, which he rubbed over his face. Cleaning charms only went so far in such a situation.

“Bad one?”

He winced. “It was a girl.” The death of a girl shouldn’t hit him harder than the death of a man, but it did. “And he had a brighter globe this time.”

He regretted his words when he saw his girlfriend flinch. She hadn’t finished her own ritual yet, and would feel as if she was failing him. Even though she and Dumbledore were working as hard as they could, and no one could have done it any better. But that was Hermione.

He got up from his bed, where he had waited for the ritual to start. “I’d better get the memory to Dumbledore.”

“And get seen by the other students,” the witch added.

He nodded. The students hadn’t missed his angry reaction to the werewolf scare, and some rumors had started, claiming that he was angry because he was a werewolf himself. Being seen under the full moon, out and about, would counter that. He looked at his girlfriend. “Shouldn’t you mess up your hair some? So they think we’ve been shagging right now?”

Chuckling, she shook her head. “No. On the contrary, by appearing perfectly styled, we’ll make them think we were shagging, but took the time to clean up again.”

“That sounds very Slytherin to me.”

Hermione shrugged. “It’s how things work.” She pointed her wand at him, and he could feel his own hair style itself. She cocked her head to the side, then nodded. “Perfect!” she declared, bending forward to kiss him.

It had been meant as a chaste kiss, Harry knew, but he grabbed her instead, and pulled her close for a passionate kiss. He needed to, after his vision he still was all riled up. By the time they separated, Hermione needed a new Hairstyling Charm.

*****

“Are we werewolf experts now?” Kenneth Fenbrick complained while he walked on a rather narrow path through a forest. “Meet a werewolf hunter in the woods, and try to save a bunch of prisoners from a fire, and suddenly you’re an expert on lycanthropy?”

“We had a rather prominent role in the Werwolf Holding Centre Massacre,” Bertha Limmington pointed out. She wasn’t breathing hard, but her face had a bit more color than usual.

“A far too prominent role,” Kenneth grumbled. He was a veteran Auror, he had seen a lot of gruesome scenes, but the aftermath of that massacre… children had died, both in the cells, and on the ground outside. As horrible as the thought of kids burning to death was, there hadn’t been anything left in the cells. But those struck by stray curses - Kenneth hoped they had been stray curses, at least - had been a terrible sight. Some had been cut, bleeding to death, others though… if Kenneth ever found out who had used the Entrail-Expelling Curse on a little girl… He clenched his jaws. Loyalty to your comrades only went so far. It had probably been a Hit-Wizard anyway.

His partner patted his shoulder, and he relaxed some, smiling at her. She hadn’t taken that incident well either, though she could hide her emotions better. Not from him though.

“So, what do we have?” he asked.

“According to the Obliviator Squad that dealt with the muggle who discovered it, it’s a dead werewolf, eviscerated and strung up in the forest,” Bertha said.

Kenneth winced at the description. That sounded nasty.

They passed a mild muggle-repelling ward, and entered a clearing, and Kenneth knew he had been right. The dead werewolf had been hung from an Oak tree, and its guts had been strung over the branches in a sick display of gore and brutality. The scavengers had already started on the corpse. He shook his head. “Merlin’s balls!”

Bertha was already working, her wand waving. “No sign of a ritual here - this wasn’t a sacrifice. Or it wasn’t sacrificed here.”

“She,” Kenneth said, pointing up. He spotted a brown patch, and walked over to it. A flick of his wand, and the patch was floating in front of him. “I’ve found the remains of a robe. Looks like it was cut off her.”

“That would mean she was captured before she transformed,” Bertha deduced.

“Yes. No self-defense gone too far here.” Kenneth wasn’t quite certain the Wizengamot would agree with him - people had a lot of leeway in dealing with dangerous creatures, after all. “Vigilantes?”

“That cannot be excluded as a possibility,” Bertha said. She was casting spell after spell at the corpse and the tree.

“Though why would they transport her to Wales to kill her? To throw us off their trail?” Kenneth asked out loud.

“There could be a religious motive too. Scandinavians were said to sacrifice people by hanging them from sacred trees,“ his partner explained.

“Do they still do that?” Kenneth didn’t want to know what kind of sick country allowed such dark magic.

“The government denies such practices, but I think there are enough independent sources to assume the practice either never died, or was revived after the Statute of Secrecy, when the Old Norse gods were revered again.”

“Well, seeing how they adore werewolves in Scandinavia, I doubt they’d sacrifice one of their own,” Kenneth said. “It would kind of run counter to their ideology of offering sanctuary to all werewolves…” he trailed off. “Do you think…?”

“Yes. It’s quite possible that this was done by unscrupulous werewolves to rile up more support for them. Or by the Dark Lord.”

“Well, I think it’s time to call in an expert. Or a suspect,” Kenneth said. After all, they had met that wizard in similar woods a month ago, hunting werewolves. And according to Sarah Macmillan, who had a son at Hogwarts, the man had been so angry at the news of werewolves escaping from the Holding Centre after the attack, he had stormed out of the Great Hall.

*****

Remus Lupin stared at the letter. The DMLE required his help with a case? He wasn’t an Auror, he was a teacher! There was… Merlin’s balls! It had to be a werewolf case, and due to the Headmaster’s cover story, they thought he was an expert. They weren’t wrong, of course, he was an expert on werewolves - though not for the reason the Ministry believed.

“Trouble?” Sirius asked in a carefully neutral tone. His friend had been visiting so often, he might as well have stayed the night.

“The DMLE wants me to consult with them for a case.” Remus handed him the letter.

Sirius read it, and frowned. “That’s not about the Holding Centre Massacre, is it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. They don’t really need an expert on werewolves to solve that case.” He scoffed with familiar bitterness. “Anyone experienced in butchering children would do.”

“That’s the British judicial system for you,” Sirius said. “Locking up innocents without trial and exposing them to monsters is how things are done here.”

“I’m sorry.” Remus hadn’t forgotten, not really, that his friend had spent more than a decade in Azkaban, but it hadn’t been on his mind when he had been enraged about the massacre.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

Remus knew Sirius didn’t mean just his own incarceration, but he nodded anyway. “I just feel guilty for…”

“Not suffering like them? Not being hunted or dead for no fault of your own?”

“Yes.” Remus snarled.

“I’d tell you you shouldn’t, but I’d be a hypocrite,” Sirius said.

Remus blinked. “What are you feeling guilty for?”

“Being able to marry the woman I love.”

“Oh.” Remus didn’t know what to say to that. He hadn’t known what to say to James either.

“It’s funny in a sad way, you know?” Sirius sighed. “We’re fighting against a Dark Lord who sends his thugs to kill children and wipe out families, who sacrifices people in rituals and to Dementors, and faced with that kind of evil, we easily forget our own sins and faults. Harry’s the Boy-Who-Lived, Hermione’s doing everything she can to fight Voldemort - and no, I don’t know exactly what they and Dumbledore are up to, but it’s very important - and yet everyone expects him to keep her as a mistress and marry some pureblood witch because she’s a muggleborn.” He sneered. “And if Umbridge had managed to push her laws through, I’d not be able to marry Valérie either because she’s a Veela. Sometimes I wish the whole Ministry, the whole country would burn down. At least the ashes could be used as fertiliser by the muggles.”

Remus swallowed. “You sound even more radical than when we were in school.” Back then, Sirius had told James to forget about Britain, and marry Lily in the muggle world, and Remus had been scandalized. This though…

“Azkaban tends to do that to you.”

“And yet, the alternative is worse. If the Dark Lord wins, he’ll kill Harry, Hermione, and all our friends,” Remus said. Then he did a double-take. Was he defending the British Ministry now?

“We’re choosing the lesser evil then,” Sirius summed it up.

“Yes,” Remus said.

“But once the war’s over…” Sirius bared his teeth, and for a moment, Remus was staring at Padfoot in human form.

“We’ll have to win first.”

“We will.” Sirius snorted flippantly.

Remus could agree with that. They had to win, or all the sacrifices, all the compromises, all the things they did and tolerated, would have been for nothing.

*****

Remus Lupin stared at the corpse hanging from the tree. It wasn’t the worst he had seen - that would forever be his family, slaughtered by Greyback - but it came close.

“The victim has been preliminarily identified as Emily Cropton, a fugitive from the Holding Centre.” The female Auror, Limmington was her name, stated in a clinical voice as if she was talking about a dead animal. She probably believed she was talking about an animal, Remus thought.

“We haven’t done an autopsy yet,” her partner, Fenbrick. He looked queasy, at least.

“An autopsy of a corpse still hanging in the air would have been quite impressive, Auror. Worth at least 10 points to Gryffindor,” Remus couldn’t help but commenting, before he looked the corpse over. The Auror chuckled, but didn’t say anything. He had a sense of humour then, unlike his partner.

Remus pulled his broom out of his expanded pocket and flew up to take a closer look. After a few minutes, his suspicions were confirmed, and he landed again.

“She wasn’t killed here. She was dead already when she was placed.” He kept his temper in check. She had been killed because she was a werewolf, he was certain of that. And he was still hiding his own curse.

“How do you know that?” Limmington asked. She didn’t sound as if she was doubting him - but then, it was hard to tell with her.

“There are distinctive scars on her wrists and ankles. She was bound with enchanted silver chains. The cuts that opened her belly were different from the cuts that exposed her heart. And there’s not enough blood.” Remus shook his head.

“The heart was exposed while she was still alive, and she was drained of her blood? That sounds like a ritual,” Fenbrick said.

“Do you know any rituals that need a werewolf sacrifice?” Limmington asked. This time she sounded actually interested. She had to be a Ravenclaw.

Remus shook his head. “No. I teach Defense against the Dark Arts, not rituals using them.”

“So… we have a vigilante, or a group of them, using rituals.” Fenbrick winced. “I guess even dark wizards don’t like werewolves.”

Remus could have pointed out that the Dark Lord seemed fond of them, but he held his tongue, even though it would have helped his cover.

“So… did you catch any werewolves during the full moon?” Fenbrick asked, a bit too eagerly.

“No.” Remus glared at him. “With everyone hunting the fugitives, those werewolves working for the Dark Lord have gone to ground. Or left the country.”

“A night wasted in the woods?” the Auror asked, as if he was sympathetic.

“Yes.”

“Do you know any other hunters?”

“No. And certainly not those who’d use the Dark Arts.” Remus didn’t know what was worse - being thought to be a werewolf, or a dark wizard. “Is that all? I’ve got a school to return to.”

“Yes. We’ll contact you again should we need more information, Mister Lupin,” Limmington said. “Thank you for your help.”

Remus simply nodded, not trusting his manners.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick waited until Lupin had apparated away before sighing. “That’s one angry wizard.”

“We already knew that,” Bertha answered.

“We didn’t know about the ritual, though,” Kenneth said. “Though an autopsy would have found it.”

“Once the Unspeakables did it.” Bertha looked up. “We can take the corpse down now.”

Kenneth waved one of the other Aurors, one junior to him, over. “Pack the corpse up and transport it back for an autopsy.” Walking away with Bertha, he asked: “Do you think he was hiding something?”

“He was rather curt. More so than when we met him for the first time.” His partner pulled out her notes.

“Yes. That was before the whole Holding Centre, but still.” Kenneth had a feeling that he was missing something, but no idea what. “Do you think he knows whoever did that?”

“He might suspect, and not tell us.”

“Dumbledore trusts him,” Kenneth said. He didn’t think the Headmaster would tolerate a dark wizard at Hogwarts. But someone who knew dark wizards? Aberforth Dumbledore certainly had some rather shady acquaintances.

“Are you planning to question the Chief Warlock about his staff?”

“No,” Kenneth said. He wasn’t stupid. “But I’ll tell the boss about this. She can feel him out.” Political problems were the kind of stuff Bones took care of.

Bertha nodded.

He stretched. “Let’s get back. I’ve seen enough gore for today.”

Kenneth felt both relieved and annoyed. It had been days again, now, that he had been waiting for a good opportunity to talk to Bertha about them. But he certainly wouldn’t do it right after watching corpses.

*****

Hermione Granger watched as the Headmaster went over the newest equations her computer had produced. Harry’s latest vision, a week ago, had shown that Voldemort had made more progress with his ritual - as far as they could tell, at least. It still wasn’t finished, Dumbledore was certain of that, but the young witch couldn’t help thinking that it might soon be good enough, even if still unfinished. The Dark Lord might be willing to forego perfecting his ritual, since it involved a sacrifice to pay much of its price already.

And she wasn’t making much progress. Or not as much as she wanted. Her improvements had grown smaller and smaller with each cycle. If she implemented a sacrifice in the formula though… she clamped down on that thought. That would demand, ultimately, an even worse price from her. And the most fitting sacrifice for her ritual, a Dementor, couldn’t be killed anyway - at least according to their lore.

She glanced over to Harry. He was writing his Transfiguration essay. She had finished hers already. And her Potions essay. A year ago, she would have been going over both a few times, altering tiny parts, rewriting single sentences. Not this year. She had far more important things to worry about, and she’d get an ‘O’ for them anyway as they were. And even if she didn’t… it wasn’t that important.

But it meant she hadn’t much to do while waiting for the Headmaster to go over her notes but worry and speculate. And watch Harry work. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, then relaxed again, turning his head to flash her a brief smile. She knew he was still torn up over the werewolves. The massacre, the sacrifice by Voldemort, the anguish Remus must be feeling - Sirius hadn’t said anything, but they knew him so well, they could tell he was worried about his best friend - and the reaction of the students… none of all that was his fault, but he still felt guilty for not being able to do much about it.

That, and it was just a few weeks to Samhain. The anniversary of his parents’ deaths. He hated the day.

She sighed, then pushed her chair next to Harry’s, and leaned into his side, letting her head rest on his shoulder. It made writing more difficult for him, but she was certain he would not mind.

For a while, she idly watched what he wrote, Gamp’s Law, nothing new. She wanted to correct him in one point, but restrained herself. He didn’t like it when she tried to write his essay for him by being too detailed with her help. To distract herself, he let her thoughts wander again, and ended up back at her work. Her most important work. A sacrifice would be perfect for it, but Dementors couldn’t be killed. A pity, since parts of them would be the next best thing to improve her formula. Nothing came as close to symbolising the goal of the ritual, the destruction of a soul, as a Dementor. Too bad that… she blinked. Even if they couldn’t be killed…

She stood up so abruptly, Harry and Dumbledore stared at her. The young witch didn’t even notice as she marched straight over to the shelves, already summoning the books she needed. It was a crazy thought, but it might just work.

*****

Paige Caldwell stared at the door to her new hideout’s cellar. It looked far too flimsy to withstand a werewolf’s rage during the full moon. Even magically reinforced, it might not be enough. And if she got out of the cellar, the large windows of the muggle vacation home overlooking a fjord would not stop her either. Nor would the walls, she realised. Her last hideout had been built far sturdier, and she had almost broken out in her rage. In fact, she had damaged the house so extensively, she had had to leave since muggles had noticed before she had managed to repair it.

She rubbed her arm, and winced. She hadn’t been fully healed from the wounds Greyback had inflicted on her when she had transformed without wolfsbane, and not only had they worsened, but she had acquired a fair share of new ones. She couldn’t keep doing this. She needed wolfsbane.

But she couldn’t just buy some. She was a wanted witch, after Greyback’s death. Paige paced in the living room of the house. She could disguise herself, but buying that potion would mark her as a werewolf, and she knew too many would ask who she was, even if only in an attempt to recruit her. She needed someone to buy wolfsbane for her. Another werewolf, so it wouldn’t look suspicious. Rich enough to buy a decent supply for her - at least a dozen vials. And weak enough to be easily controlled by an Imperius.

Not an easy order, not not impossible either. But first, she needed to heal up - bleeding wounds would attract far too much attention.

*****

Albus Dumbledore was smiling politely at the wizards and witches he met on the way to Amelia’s office, even though he didn’t feel like smiling at all. It wasn’t the fault of those Ministry workers though. It was his own, for failing to convince Cornelius and Amelia. So many were dead, burned alive, slaughtered with spells, hunted like animals.

And so many werewolves were now ready to join the Dark Lord, to avenge those who had been killed. Both in Britain, and abroad. Tom’s plan had worked out perfectly. Scandinavia was even petitioning the ICW to take action. A hopeless but still powerful gesture, given the ICW’s standing policy towards intervention in internal affairs of its members.

He entered the office of the Head of the DMLE. “Good morning, Amelia.”

“Good morning Albus. Are you here to tell me you told me so?” Amelia narrowed her eyes at him, then waved at a chair. “Have a seat.”

He had more or less expected that. Amelia was always more comfortable taking the initiative. He sat down. “I do not think that would help matters.”

“No it wouldn’t,” she pressed out. “So, why are you here?”

“To discuss our current situation. We have a rather urgent problem.” A problem he had warned her about.

“Nordic werewolves?”

“Yes. Scandinavia is up in wands about the tragedy at the Holding Centre. The Dark Lord will have an easy time recruiting werewolves, both British and foreign, to his banner.”

“Can your friends do something about the recruiters working there?” Amelia asked. “Those who did something about the Lestranges.”

“I have informed them, but even if the Dark Lord’s envoys are dealt with, we can expect Scandinavians to attack Britain. Individuals, of course,” he added, before Amelia could say anything, “acting without knowledge or approval from their government.”

Amelia scoffed. “As if anyone would believe that, with half their government made up of werewolves.”

“It will be enough for the ICW. Especially after Scandinavia already denounced us there.” Albus knew that institution very well.

“Merlin’s arse!” Amelia cursed, but she sounded resigned more than angry. “Dealing with them will bind a lot of personnel.”

“Which the Dark Lord will do his best to exploit,” the Headmaster said. “And there’s still the issue with domestic werewolves.”

“There shouldn’t be too many of them left.” When she saw his expression, she added: “I’m just stating a fact. As tragic as the events were, they did reduce the number of werewolves in Britain.”

“And drove the survivors into the ranks of the Dark Lord.” Albus stared at Amelia. “And given the widely publicised hunt for them, I fear we have to expect that at least some of the Scandinavians entering Britain will be targeting the civilian population for revenge.”

Amelia closed her eyes for a moment, muttering another curse under her breath. “Most of them are living in heavily warded homes now, and we’re already guarding Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. The problem are those joining or coordinating with the Dark Lord.”

“There will be a number of them, and they will be able to recruit more from their homes. I will be trying to influence the ICW to pressure Scandinavia, and Cornelius will feel out the other European Countries to see if they might be willing to take a stance against werewolves invading us - they could be next, after all - but I am not that optimistic of our chances of success.” Albus spread his hands. “Isolationism is very common, after all.”

“I know.”

“And a change of policy would also hamper the efforts of our own ‘individual wands’ acting without knowledge or approval of the Ministry in foreign countries,” Albus pointed out.

“That’s a small price to pay for more international support,” Amelia stated. Albus knew she wouldn’t mind if vigilante actions were curbed. She was a bit too inflexible in that area.

“The real problem will be the nights of the full moon. Many werewolves running free will force us to deploy, which will make us both vulnerable and spread out.”

Amelia rubbed her forehead. “I’ll have Scrimgeour go over the contingency plans.”

“That is a good idea.” Albus looked at his watch. “I don’t want to keep you from your work any longer.”

“Speaking of work, Albus. How well do you know Remus Lupin?”

“He’s the best Defense teacher Hogwarts has had in decades,” Albus stated. He was wary though - what did Amelia want? Had the cover story he had arranged been disproven?

“He’s hunting werewolves during the full moon, isn’t he?”

“He’s known for that, yes,” Albus said carefully.

“Do you think he could be involved in the latest werewolf killing? My Aurors say it was done in a dark ritual.” Amelia stared at him intently.

Albus almost smiled. “I can assure you that he was not involved in that. He abhors dark rituals.” Before Amelia could ask another question, or voice her doubt, he added: “While it is not proof that would hold up in court, I can assure you that I am absolutely certain he was not responsible for this crime.”

“Ah.” Amelia nodded. She’d think Remus had been working for, or even with Albus during the full moon.

“If that is all…?”

“Do you think he might know or suspect those who did it?”

Albus shook his head. “He was, with the exception of his closest friends, always a loner, even when he was a student of mine. He wouldn’t know other hunters.”

Amelia nodded. “That is all then. I hope you’ll have a better day than I’m having.”

“Thank you, Amelia. I wish you a good day as well.”

Albus smiled, rose, and left the office. He’d have to talk to Remus, and find out what had happened.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore studied the building in Magical Oslo. It was the biggest Potions shop in the city, and in a real building too, not just in a tent or a stall. Though that was to be expected; brewing needed a sturdy environment, as did selling potions that could react badly should they mix. One mistake in a tent could lead to losing the tent and everything inside. Including the brewer.

He couldn’t spot specialised wards though - just the standard ones to keep the shop safe. Disguised as a Bulgarian wizard and with his beard dyed, he hadn’t drawn much attention from the passersby. If he had been recognised as a British wizard though… there was a crowd on the plaza in front of the seat of the government, and the wizards and witches were shouting threats and slurs against Britain. The mood was so aggressive - no wonder, of course, with so many werewolves around - Aberforth was certain any British visitor would have been killed by the mob. Someone with an Amplifying Charm was shouting about ‘avenging our brothers and sisters in Britain, visiting tenfold upon those murderers what sorrow they had brought upon families’, and similar lines. Those listening to him were repeating the lines, their shouts drowning out his own.

Aberforth shook his head. That was an Erumpent Horn in a building with a poltergeist, and Albus was at fault. He turned around and entered the potions shop. The clerk, a young witch, smiled at him politely, though without any warmth. “Welcome to Snorre’s Potions, the best potions in Oslo. How may I help you?”

Aberforth looked around, spotting the Wolfsbane vials easily. Of course, being a werewolf was not a stigma here, so the potion would not be sold under the counter, but openly. “I need a potion of Dreamless Sleep.”

While the girl turned around to fetch the potion, he drew his wand and put Tracking Charms on the Wolfsbane vials.

“Here, sir.” The girl put a stoppered vial on the counter.

Aberforth nodded, and pulled out his purse while the girl recorded the sale with her wand on a roll of parchment. Given the threat of getting addicted to that potion, no one should suspect him if he returned each day to buy another one, instead of buying in bulk. He’d have to check daily if anyone unexpected had bought wolfsbane in bulk.

Then the Tracking Charms would lead him to Caldwell.

*****

Ron Weasley watched Parkinson at her table in the Library. The room’s enchantments prevented him from hearing what she was saying, but she seemed annoyed with Greengrass. Not as annoyed as Hermione and Harry had been, of course, after the girl had knocked on their room late at night, dressed in what Hermione had described as ‘a little bit of illusionary silk’.

At least, judging by the blonde’s expression, she might have finally understood that Harry and Hermione were not shy or wanting her to make a bigger effort, but not interested. Then the Slytherin turned her head to stare at Harry, again - and at Hermione, if he had observed correctly, and Ron just knew the girl hadn’t given up yet. Greengrass was really abusing the ‘can’t hex people for politely asking to have sex with you’ rule, at least in his opinion. But as Hermione had explained to him - reluctantly, he was certain - if you allowed people to answer propositions with hexes just because you disliked someone, then you ran counter to the very purpose of the Year of Discovery, which was ‘the free exploration of your sexuality in a safe and consensual environment’, as she had put it.

He saw the girl suddenly jump up and rub her rear, and pout at Pansy, Parkinson, who was putting her wand down again. That wasn’t against the rules, of course. Well, it was, but it wasn’t a serious infraction. Most students wouldn’t bother with reporting a stinging hex, to avoid getting shamed for wearing robes that couldn’t even stop such a weak spell.

Oh. Parkinson was standing now as well, and from her expression, she was reading Greengrass the riot act. The last time Ron had seen a witch as furious in the library had been when the Ravenclaws had checked out all the books Hermione had wanted to read. Harry had managed to calm her down, fortunately.

Still, he wondered what Pansy was so angry about. She couldn’t be jealous, Greengrass had no chance with Harry or Hermione, and everyone but the blonde knew it. He hoped Parkinson wasn’t jealous. It wouldn’t fit her, he told himself.

*****

“Greengrass!”

“Daphne,” the twit corrected Pansy Parkinson. “I told you, call me Daphne.”

“Daphne! Why the hell did I hit you with a stinging hex?”

“I don’t know! I was just looking around, and you hexed me!”

“You were staring at Potter and mumbling something distracting. But that is not the point. The point is, why did my hex reach you, and wasn’t stopped by your robe’s protection?” Skimpy as it was, the Greengrass family wasn’t poor, and should have bought top of the line protections for their eldest daughter.

“Oh, I’m not wearing my normal robes. I’m wearing conjured ones.” Greengrass smiled as if that was anything to be proud of.

“And why would you… Merlin, is this your next scheme? You plan to have the robe vanish when you’re next to Potter?” Pansy stared at her fellow Slytherin witch.

“You make it sound as if it was a bad plan!”

“It is a bad plan! And a security risk! Our country is at war, Daphne, at war with monsters who want to kill us! That means you need to be ready to defend yourself. Not wearing your robe… Merlin! Why don’t you leave your wand in your room as well?” Pansy couldn’t understand the other witch.

Daphne was hunching her shoulders now. “I just wanted… it’s not fair! I just want to have one night with Potter! I’ve tried everything but polyjuice!”

Pansy rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Daphne, Potter’s not sleeping with anyone but Granger. Everyone knows that now. He isn’t playing hard to get, or being very discerning, he’s not looking for an orgy, he’s in love with Granger.”

Daphne pushed her chin forward, but… were those tears in her eyes? Pansy sighed, feeling guilty for busting the blonde’s illusions. Slightly only, though. “I’m sorry, but it had to be said.”

Davis nodded. “If you don’t move on, you’ll miss out on the entire year.”

The witch sat down again, and stared at the floor. “It’s not fair.” She wiped her eyes. “All the best wizards are taken. Potter. Weasley. Longbottom...”

Pansy interrupted her before she could continue. “What about Weasley?”

Why were the others now staring at her, like they had been staring at Greengrass?

*****

It had taken him a week, the purchase of seven unused potions of Dreamless Sleep he was billing Albus for, half a dozen Compulsion Charms and dozens of Tracking Charms, but Aberforth had finally found a trace of Caldwell. A local had bought a dozen wolfsbane potions, without being a werewolf himself. That alone wouldn’t have been too suspicious; twice Aberforth had tracked ten or more wolfsbane vials, only to find out it had been a villager buying for all the werewolf neighbours.

This time though… he wasn’t looking at a magical village, but a muggle vacation home. No wards, no big garden, no walls around it, no forest nearby to run around in… no werewolf in Scandinavia would live voluntarily in such a home. Unless they had no choice, or were in hiding. Like Caldwell.

Aberforth studied the house. Wooden walls, thin and with large windows. It was more a hut, or maybe a cottage, in his opinion. And it was no real obstacle for him. Shaking his head, he disillusioned himself and mounted his broom. As soon as he was done here he could go and hunt down Voldemort’s agents. He pointed his wand at the hut and cast an Anti-Apparition Jinx, followed by an Anti-Portkey Jinx.

Caldwell would not escape now.

*****

Paige Caldwell was feeling better than she had ever since she had set foot on Scandinavia. Her plan had worked perfectly. She had imperiused a local idiot, who had bought a dozen vials of Wolfsbane Potion for her. She was set for a year now. She had even managed to acquire a newspaper as well - though she wished she hadn’t. The British were hunting her kind down mercilessly, burning their prisoners alive as if they were witch-hunters. Even children were not spared. She shuddered. Even if the Dark Lord wanted her dead, she hoped he’d win against the Ministry, if only for the sake of those werewolves still alive in Britain. No matter what the Dark Lord did, it couldn’t be as bad as what was happening right now.

At least she was safe now. If she stuck to muggle vacation homes, and left no traces, no one would find her. The muggles would be looking for a muggle thief - but not really hard, if she didn’t do anything worse than stealing food and some money. Things were, finally, looking up, after Umbridge’s death.

She snorted. She still couldn’t believe that that witch had sacrificed herself for her. Life debts were scary. If she ever owed one…

The front door exploding into a small cloud of wooden splinters, narrowingly missing her and wrecking the kitchen door, interrupted her thoughts. That had been a Blasting Curse! She tried to apparate away, but failed. She was trapped!

Growling, she rushed to the back door, then stopped and headed to the next window. She didn’t know how she had been found, but she knew that she had to escape or she’d be killed. There was no time to gather the vials, or anything else. Her life was on the line.

“Reducto!”

Her own curse blew the window apart, and she jumped out, landing in a crouch and diving to the side at once. The spot she had landed on erupted right when she left, showering her with clumps of Earth and small rocks. They were in the air!

“Protego!”

She rolled on her back, then her front again. She hadn’t seen anyone in the sky. But they were there, she knew that. Jumping up, she started to sprint for the street, where the Anti-Apparition Jinxes couldn’t cover everything!

She didn’t make it. She hadn’t even cleared half the distance to the street when the area around her blew up. Her shield was shattered at once, and the spells on her robes flared when stone and earth hit her while she was still in the air. She crashed to the ground, her breath knocked out of her for a second.

Her attackers didn’t need more than that. Before she could react, she was bound by magic and her wand was flying away, upwards.

Several spells were cast on her, half of them she didn’t know at all, the rest she could only guess. She couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even talk, much less move her body. Her assailant was invisible, she realised, and flying.

Next to her, she saw an invisibility cloak being thrown back. An old Bulgarian or Romanian wizard revealed himself. At least his robes looked like they came from that region. His accent though… pure Britain. A shiver ran down her spine. If that was a minion of the Dark Lord…

The man stepped up to her, and pointed a wand at her.

“Legilimens!”

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore frowned as he sifted through the mind and memories of the werewolf. Caldwell didn’t know any secrets Albus hadn’t already told him, or suspected. She wasn’t on the run from the Dark Lord because she knew too much, but because she had failed him. She knew about the plan to curse Wizengamot members with lycanthropy, but nothing more. Even her knowledge about safe houses was outdated now.

In short, she was useless. All that time, wasted on a simple thug. Umbridge would have known more secrets, at least, but she was dead. Had sacrificed herself for this… Death Eater. Not a marked one, though. But - he dug a bit deeper - she had been willing enough, even eager, to do the Dark Lord’s bidding. Eager to kill. Eager to spread her curse. She deserved death.

He stepped back and pointed his wand at her. A Cutting Curse would do it. Her eyes were wide, the only parts of her body she could use, and stared at him. Like her victims had, he imagined, when she had been about to bite them.

And yet he hesitated to end her life. As much as he hated to admit it, she wasn’t that different from some of his friends. Scorned by society, an outcast in her own country, her former life destroyed by circumstances out of her control or responsibility… if he killed her, what would that say about himself? And about his friends? She wasn’t about to rejoin the Dark Lord. She couldn’t - Voldemort wanted her dead.

With a muttered curse, he lowered his wands and stepped closer. “I know you can hear me just fine, girl.” Her eyes started to dart around. “I’m Aberforth Dumbledore. She stared at him, and he chuckled. “You’ve heard of me, then. Some older mercenary, maybe? It doesn’t matter I guess. I should kill you for what you’ve done. I won’t, though. Not unless you hurt or kill anyone else. In that case, I’ll come for you, I will find you, and I will kill you. Slowly, painfully. This is your one and only chance to save yourself.”

He looked around. “It won’t be long until the local Obliviators arrive to check on the disturbance. I wasn’t exactly subtle.” He threw her wand towards the house, far enough so she couldn’t grab it and attack him, then ended the curse holding her. He didn’t wait for her to speak and apparated away as soon as he was ready.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort looked at the globe in his palm. It shone with a light of its own, but it was rather dim compared to the others he had created during the last rituals, especially the one in September. It lasted far longer though, but that was of no consequence to him. He needed power, and a muggle werewolf obviously couldn’t deliver as today had proven.

He wouldn’t waste the globe though. Even relatively weak as it was, compared to the full potential of the ritual, it was still valuable. Steinberg might be able to finally finish his project with that. It was past time already - Voldemort needed those wands for his plan.

Frowning, he reminded himself that he also needed the werewolves. Under his command, to be exact, not doing whatever they want in Britain. So far he had not managed to recruit enough of the werewolves heading to Britain from Scandinavia. Too many of the beasts simply sneaked on the island and looked for trouble. Well, as soon as his agents sorted their troubles out, this should change.

And until then those werewolves and their friends were doing their part to keep the Ministry unstable, feeding the wish of the people of a strong leader. It would facilitate his takeover after he had dealt with the last of his enemies.

*****

Harry Potter didn’t like Samhain. He had never liked it. His parents had been killed on that day. But he’d not miss the ceremony honouring Dis Pater, the God of the Underworld, and those who had died this year.

As every Samhain, all of the Ghosts in Hogwarts had gathered in the Great Hall, on the special table for them, where food would rot in seconds so they could partake of the meal. Once the meal started, at least. It wasn’t time yet,

Dumbledore rose from his seat, clapping his hands together. The Great Hall fell silent as the students and teachers stood up as well. The lights dimmed, until the Hall was shrouded in Darkness. Then the Headmaster spoke, in a sombre, grave tone.

“Dis Pater. Guardian of the Afterlife. Ruler of the Underworld. We implore you: Guide those souls who left us this year. Show them the way on their last journey. Judge them with mercy.”

Dumbledore raised his wand and cut the palm of his left hand. Blood started drip from the wound but vanished in shadows before it hit the ground. Harry followed the old wizard’s example, cutting his own palm with his wand, hissing at the brief pain. His blood too, disappeared before it touched the stone floor, and he felt suddenly cold.

The Headmaster started to list the names of the students and staff who had died the past year. The were far too many, several dozens, and each name prompted a sob or muttering from among the students. Harry didn’t know how long he stood there, bleeding, but he didn’t feel tired, or weak, but numb when Dumbledore read the last name. They said Dis Pater punished murderers. Harry hoped that was true. There were a lot of murderers in Britain that needed to be punished.

When the light went on again, he sat down, his hand - fully healed without a spell - seeking Hermione’s. He needed to touch her, to reassure himself that she was fine. She squeezed his hand, and smiled at him. He started to feel better again. Warmer. Ron was craning his neck, oh so subtly sneaking glances at Parkinson.

Their friend noticed their scrutiny, and pursed his lips. “I’m just checking how she’s doing. She lost a friend too.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione. She shook her head slightly. Ron wasn’t fooling anyone but himself, and Harry doubted even that. But it was better to watch his antics than to dwell too much on the dead.

Looking at the numerous empty spots at each table, each a missing or dead student, he felt almost ill. So many students had been killed on the orders of a monster. A monster he was fated to kill. If he had managed that, all those students wouldn’t be dead.

Harry vowed that next year’s Samhain would be different.

*****


	55. Berserkers

**Chapter 55: Berserkers**

Hermione Granger smiled while she watched Harry duel with Ron in ‘their’ room. It wasn’t a serious duel, of course. It would have been foolish to do that outside a duelling chamber or court. The two were simply fooling around, sending hexes and jinxes at each other. They were more having fun than actually training, though one could claim they were improving their dodging. She didn’t mind though - it was good to see Harry laughing again, after the sombre mood Samhain had put him in.

Even if it distracted her somewhat from her research. Though to be honest, she had exhausted her resources already. There simply wasn’t enough material about Dementors in the Hogwarts Library to be useful. She had asked the Headmaster for more resources, but he hadn’t come through yet with anything.

The young witch bit her lower lip. The Dark Lord was making progress, while she was… not exactly stalled, but slowing down. If this went on for much longer… An arm around her shoulders, and a kiss on her cheek interrupted her increasingly dark thoughts.

“What are you frowning about?” Harry asked, the lighter tone of his question contrasting with the worry in his eyes.

There was no point in lying. She gestured at her computer. “I need more books to continue my research, but they are hard to come by.”

“Oh, Hermione needs books! What a surprise!” Ron grinned, cleaning the last spots Harry’s colour spraying hex had left on his face with a flick of his wand.

She pursed her lips and frowned at him, though she felt better already hearing the familiar banter.

“The Headmaster will get them,” Harry said, squeezing her shoulder, then steered her towards the couch.

“I hope so.” There was no alternative, not really.

Ron let himself fall into the seat next to the couch, then floated the tray with snacks over to the group. “You’ll get them. Or you’ll find a way to do without them.” He bit into a sandwich. “Where’s Dumbledore anyway? He hasn’t been seen around the school in a while.”

“He’s dealing with the Ministry, I think” Harry said.

“The werewolves?” Ron asked.

“And the ICW trouble. Scandinavia is making waves,” Hermione said.

“They try. But they are the only ones who care about werewolves,” Harry added in a bitter tone.

“Some of the enclaves in America have quite progressive policies as well,” Hermione corrected him.

Harry scoffed. “They’re just looking for curse fodder for their wars.”

“Scandinavia is the same,” Hermione countered.

“Well, if they weren’t, all the werewolves would have emigrated to the North long ago,” Ron said, summoning a can of Coca Cola. “Bunch of crazy wizards, always warring with each other. Like a miniature America.”

“North America,” Hermione said. “Central and South America are quite stable regions.” They still had slaves, and had wiped out the native wizards and witches, but they were stable. She saw Ron and Harry exchange a grin, and frowned. So she liked being precise!

Harry squeezed her shoulder again, then pulled her into his lap. “It’s not just that. I asked Remus about it. Scandinavia is also… too rustic for his taste.”

Ron looked puzzled. “Rustic?”

Harry nodded. “They don’t use as much magic as we do, at least not openly, because of the numbers of muggle werewolves. They’d take offense or something.”

Ron blinked. “Blimey! No wonder no one wants to emigrate there, if you have to live like a muggle!”

Hermione snorted. “Living like a muggle wouldn’t be bad. Living like a wizard without magic though… they still have wards, which renders most technology useless. The Scandinavian muggle countries have one of the highest standards of living, actually.”

“Well, once you patent your invention,” Ron said, pointing at her shielded computer, “that might change. Should make you rich too.”

Hermione bit her lower lip, and glanced at Harry. They had thought about that.

Ron frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Hermione sighed. “It’ll also mean more people will be able to speed up spellcrafting.”

“Like dark wizards,” Ron said, looking grim. “But they already know it’s possible, due to the Movie Nights.”

“Yes.” Some might be fooled, Hermione knew, into thinking this was some magic way to see muggle movies, but the smarter wizards would soon know, if they didn’t already, that this was a way to have muggle electronics work inside wards. “But they won’t yet know how. And some might never find out.”

“Well, you’ll be able to profit indirectly at least by developing spells,” Ron said. As a son of the Weasley family, Hermione knew he was very familiar with all ways to make a good living in Wizarding Britain.

“Yes!” said Harry, “She’ll create a lot of spells. She already got a few inquiries after the Tournament.”

“You got them,” Hermione pointed out. That slight still hurt, even more than a year later. In response he kissed her.

After a while, Ron coughed. They broke the kiss, and Hermione glared at their best friend.

“Hey!” He grinned and held up his hands. “There’s a reason we have single rooms in sixth year.”

“Did you tell that to the twins as well?” They certainly hadn’t stuck to their rooms during their ‘explorations’.

“As if telling them anything would have been of any use.” Ron waved his hand dismissively.

“Well,” Harry said, grinning, “you’re not exactly discreet with Parkinson.”

“Hey!” Ron glared at him.

Hermione giggled.

Ron sighed. “Just because she’s the only one outside our friends who takes the training seriously, and a challenge to duel doesn’t mean I fancy her.”

Harry made an exaggerated show of being relieved. “Whew! You had me worried there, mate, since we duel so often as well.”

Hermione giggled again, and added: “That doesn’t mean you don’t fancy her either.”

Ron shook his head. “She was Malfoy’s girlfriend!”

“Well, she broke up with him for muggle movies. That doesn’t sound like there was much love,” Harry said.

“She probably resented that he tried to tell her what she could and couldn’t watch. She’s got a lot of pride,” Hermione said. At least Lavender and Parvati had said that, back then.

“Sounds plausible to me,” Ron agreed. “She really hates losing.”

“Unless it’s to you.” Harry smirked.

Ron growled, and grabbed another sandwich.

It wasn’t nice to tease their friend like that, Hermione thought as she snuggled up to Harry, but she felt much happier already.

*****

Ejnar Borge watched the coast of England, barely visible in the pale light of the half-moon, grow larger as the ship he was on approached the island. He took a deep breath, and for a second, he imagined he was a Viking raider, bearing down on the Anglo-Saxons to pillage their villages. In a way he was, though he wouldn’t pillage, but punish. Teach those British bigots that they couldn’t murder werewolves with impunity. Teach them to fear the berserkers.

He saw Afi walk up to him. The man wasn’t quite as tall as he was, but had the same blonde hair. His cousin stared at the coast as well, then turned to him. “I still don’t think it’ll be as easy as you claim.”

Ejnar snorted. “I’ve done it before. The British put far too much trust in magic. They didn’t even control the muggle traffic back then.” They were weak, depending on magic. Unlike the Scandinavians. He saw that the other werewolf looked unconvinced, and slapped him on the back. “Don’t worry. Even if they could detect us, at night and using a muggle ship, we’d best whatever forces they’d throw at us. We’re a warband, not some children and prisoners.”

Afi nodded. “Truth.”

They did have almost two score with them - and most of them berserkers - from five different packs. Enjar thought the expedition was worth it just for the alliance it created, sealed with blood and oath, between those packs.

They were close enough to the shore now that he could see the foam where the sea reached the beach. “Rouse the rest. We’ll disembark soon.”

While Afi went below decks, Ejnar went to check on the Zodiacs the crew were preparing. All experienced fishermen, they knew their work, but he was the leader of this band, and he’d have to check. Drowning would be a rather ignoble death, unworthy of Valhalla. Not that he was looking forward to Valhalla already. He still had no children, no legacy. This expedition could earn him both. Erase the stain on of his association with that traitor Paige - Caldwell.

He snarled, thinking about her. Years ago, he had thought her weak when she had not wanted to join his pack. Too civilised to stomach the life in Scandinavia. She hadn’t been weak, but treacherous though. An assassin posing as a whore. He had no doubt that she was already back in Britain, getting her reward for having assassinated Greyback.

He clenched his fist, breathing deeply to calm himself. She wouldn’t escape justice. For a werewolf to side with the British scum there was only one punishment. Death.

By the time he was calm enough to address others without growling, the Zodiacs were ready and his band was on deck. He looked them over. All of them were wizards. The other werewolves had volunteered as well, but for this first expedition, he wanted to restrict the members to those able to use wands. They didn’t know enough about Britain, yet.

He nodded at the men and women. There was no need for speeches. Everyone knew why they were here.

“Let’s go!”

The Zodiacs were lowered onto the water, and his band followed, climbing down and filling both. Two fishermen handled the Zodiacs. They were muggles, but they had relatives among the packs, and dealt with several villages. They’d not betray their own blood.

Ejnar let his hand trail through the water while they sped towards the beach. Once again, he thought, Norsemen came to make war on the British. And once again they’d vanquish them.

*****

Sitting in the library, Pansy Parkinson mentally rolled her eyes when she saw Daphne Greengrass walking towards her. The blonde ditz took a seat next to her, the table barely expanding past the chair. Even the library seemed to know that Greengrass wasn’t fond of books. Or the library had no magic left to spare after stretching Granger’s table, Pansy thought with a chuckle.

“Hi Pansy,” the blonde mumbled, then sat down. She had been moping ever since she had finally realised that, yes, Harry Potter really didn’t want to sleep with her. She didn’t look like she was feeling any better still.

“Daphne,” Pansy answered, letting a hint of her annoyance at the interruption of her studying bleed into her tone.

The other witch, of course, completely missed that, and sighed theatrically. “Why’s love so difficult?”

“You’re not in love. You’re just stubbornly in lust,” Pansy said.

“There should be a law against such selfishness!” Daphne huffed.

Pansy rolled her eyes at that. “Don’t be stupid. Would you sleep with McLaggen?”

The girl gasped. “I’m not sleeping with McLaggen!”

She sighed. “The point was that the Year of Exploration is about doing things you want, without regrets. Not things you don’t want.”

“Well, I want to sleep with them!”

“And they don’t want to sleep with anyone but themselves. Accept it!”

The witch sighed, and didn’t say anything for a bit. But just when Pansy had turned back to the treatise about defensive enchantments, Daphne mumbled: “I’m trying to. It’s just so hard. I’ve been looking forward to this for years!”

“You’ve been looking forward to sleeping with Granger for years?”

“No! Well, not for years. She got prettier though, and do you remember how she did in the Duelling Competition?”

“Of course I do. Draco was moping for weeks.” Not unlike Daphne, Pansy thought.

Neither witch said anything for a bit. Then Daphne sighed once more. “Tracey said that even if I had been nicer to Granger in first year, they’d not want to sleep with me.”

“She’s right.” Tracey, Pansy, even Susan Bones had been telling that to Daphne, if what Pansy had heard was correct.

“It would have been easier if that was the reason, you know. Something I did, not something I am.”

“Merlin, Daphne! How often do I have to tell you, it’s not your fault! You’re fine, There’s nothing wrong with you, Potter simply doesn’t sleep with anyone but Granger!” Pansy all but shouted, trusting in the privacy enchantments of the library.

Daphne gaped at her, then smiled. “Thank you!”

For a moment, Pansy considered telling her that she hadn’t meant it that way. That the other witch was a twit. But the blonde had been moping for so long, she really didn’t want to ruin any progress that had been - finally! - made.

“I think I’m over them now,” Daphne said, though with a wistful expression straight from a robe-ripper cover.

“Thank the gods!” Pansy mumbled under her breath.

“So… what about you and Weasley?” The blonde leaned forward with an eager expression on her face.

Pansy closed her eyes. “There’s nothing between me and him.” Nothing she could put her finger on, in any case. There could be something, she was certain of that.

“Oh. Do you mind if I sleep with him then?” Daphne beamed at her.

Pansy’s glare set the other witch running, but she was giggling as she fled.

To think that twit got the better of her… Pansy resolved to pay extra attention to Daphne in the next Defense Club session. Maybe she’d look for a stronger Stinging Hex too. As experience had shown her, the blonde needed more work to learn a lesson than most others.

*****

Wizarding Britain had changed since he had been there the last time, Ejnar Borge thought a few days after the arrival of his warband on the shores of the island. When he had been traveling through the country, and trying to persuade werewolves to move to Scandinavia, he had visited a number of small settlements. All of those seemed abandoned now though, the houses sealed up. Like the one he was standing in at the moment, a handful of houses in the countryside, hidden from muggles. Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley would be different, but they also would be heavily guarded. Ejnar and his band were brave, but he didn’t plan to visit Valhalla that soon.

“Any luck?” he asked when he saw his cousin walking towards him.

Afi shook his head. “No soul around, as far as I can tell.” He gestured behind him. “We found a weakly warded house, and we could break through them.”

Enjar thought that over. “We’ll do it, but we’ll prepare an ambush.” The British Ministry would have ways to monitor such houses.

Afi grinned. “Blood or loot. Or both.”

“Exactly.”

Ejnar quickly had three of his band work on the wards, while the rest, disillusioned and hidden, were spread out, covering the approaches to the house. If the British wizards dared to show up they’d soon discover that facing a Norse Warband was very different from facing children.

When the thugs of the British Ministry arrived, he discovered what else had changed in Britain. He had expected them to surround the house, and demand that the the men working on the wards surrender. Just like they had reacted to a bit of violence during his first visit.

Instead half a dozen spells flew at his men from above without warning, focused on one werewolf. His shield and other protections didn’t withstand that sort of assault, and he was hit by a bludgeoning curse that slammed him into the ground. It didn’t kill him, but it disrupted his concentration. That triggered a backlash from the wards. Fortunately those were weak, but it was still enough to kill him and throw the two others working on the wards around like rag dolls, their shields shattered.

Ejnar’s warband roared with rage and spells flew at the disillusioned broom riders. Not enough had the presence of mind to cast a Human-presence-revealing Spell though - but two of the broom riders - Hit-Wizards, he realised when he saw their grey robes - were stripped of their concealing charms, and a dozen spells shot at them at once. One of them evaded the barrage, suffering only one hit, his shield flaring up as a spell clipped him. The other was hit with multiple curses and blown from his broom. He was still screaming when the wards of the house he was falling towards fried him.

Ejnar cast another Human-presence-revealing Spell, followed by Afi, but the British were flying away as fast as they could. He cast an amplifying charm on himself since most of his band shouted curses and taunts at the retreating Hit-Wizards. They hadn’t been in battle long enough to go berserk, which he was very glad for. Flying enemies were the worst for a warband. “Gather our wounded and Bolli. We need to leave before they return in force.”

One of the more excitable members of his band yelled “Fleeing? From those cowards?” Others who had been moving already hesitated.

Ejnar faced him. “Yes. They’ll return with more wands, prepared for us. Only a fool stays after the first clash of a raid.” He stared at the man until the werewolf lowered his eyes, then glanced at the rest of his band.

They were gone in a minute, to the hideout they had prepared. He looked at the houses again. Tempting, yet deadly. “We got blood, but no loot.”

Afi, standing next to him, nodded. “Next time we’ll be better prepared.”

Ejnar nodded. He didn’t say that he expected the British to be better prepared as well. Afi would know that anyway. This wouldn’t be as easy as he had thought.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick looked up when his partner, Bertha Limmington, entered their shared office, nose deep in a scroll. “Did the Unspeakables finally finish the autopsy?”

Betha nodded. “No sign of vampiric involvement. The werewolf was bled out through the heart by magical means, then cut up and disemboweled.”

Kenneth sighed. “I’m not certain if I should be relieved that the bloodsuckers are not involved, or concerned that the wolf was used in a dark ritual.”

“Both are valid reactions,” Bertha said, rolling up the report and presenting it to him.

He shook his head. He trusted her to find anything useful in it. “Did you hear about the Felwich raid?”

The other Auror set the roll of parchment down on her desk, then shook her head. “No. What happened?”

“Six Hit-Wizards ran into an ambush when checking up on a ward-breaking alert. Lost one, and when they returned in force, the ambushers were gone.”

“Death Eaters?” Bertha narrowed her eyes.

“Maybe. But rather clumsy ones. They lost one of them serving as bait because they were still trying to break down the wards when the Hit-Wizards hit them.”

Bertha faintly smiled at his feeble word play. “But burglars wouldn’t have had the numbers to ambush a strike team of Hit-Wizards.”

“Nor the skill to get one of them,” Kenneth agreed.

“So, when do we move out?”

Kenneth stared at her. “Did you meet the boss on the way?”

She shook her head. “No. But you knew a bit too much about this. Too much for simple gossip.”

He smiled, he should have know. “You’re right. We’re on the case. Probably because it’s another mystery.”

Bertha nodded. Most would have missed her smile, Kenneth didn’t.

He frowned at her. “You don’t need to look so pleased about more work!”

Her next smile no one could have missed. Kenneth was still grumbling by the time they reached the apparition point.

*****

A dozen Hit-Wizards were in the village - if the half a dozen houses could be called that - when they arrived. Their leader welcomed them. “Alois Fawley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Kenneth shook his hand. “Kenneth Fenbrick. This is my partner, Bertha Limmington. We’re the ones getting stuck with the weird cases.” Bertha glared at him, and he grinned.

The witch addressed Fawley: “What do you know so far?”

“Follow me. I’ll fill you in on the way,” the Hit-Wizard said, gesturing towards the smallest house nearby. “We received the alert in the early evening, and sent a team out. They approached disillusioned, and on brooms, and discovered what looked like three looters. Rather plain robes, focused on the wards. The team engaged, and took out one of them, triggering the wards. That struck the other two down. Right then about two dozen more opened up from concealed positions. The got Brackton, blew him off the broom, straight into the wards there, but the rest of the team escaped.”

Kenneth bit back a comment about fleeing Hit-Wizards. The only ones allowed to joke about a mission where people had died were the ones who had been there.

“Were any special spells observed?” Bertha asked.

“My wizards were a bit too busy dodging them to identify them,” Fawley said, chuckling. When Bertha simply nodded with that stern face of hers Kenneth knew so well, the man looked taken aback.

“This was the battleground.”

Kenneth nodded and checked the area and started casting detection spells, as did Bertha. The witch was as focused as usual.

“I detect a distinct lack of dark spells,” Kenneth summed his results up after a quarter hour. Sadly, his partner didn’t react to his contradiction.

“That would be very unusual for the Dark Lord’s forces,” Bertha said instead.

“Do you think it’s a new group?”

The witch nodded. “Though we cannot exclude the possibility of a deception by the Dark Lord.”

“They could be new recruits though, not yet long enough in his service to have adapted to his tactics,” Kenneth speculated.

“In either case, Scandinavian origins would be most likely.”

Kenneth groaned. It made too much sense given what he had heard about Scandinavia’s reaction to the Holding Centre Massacre, and to Greyback’s death.

“What?” Fawley all but shouted. “Those were berserkers?”

“Not every Scandinavian is a berserker, or a werewolf,” Bertha corrected the Hit-Wizard.

“Just most of those who’d rush to Britain, eager to avenge their fellow werewolves,” Kenneth added, pointing out why those Scandinavians were invading. He still hadn’t found the name of the werewolf who had fallen into the fire at the last moment, after saving so many. And no one else but Bertha seemed to care.

“Merlin’s balls! I’ll have to inform the rest!”

“Just be aware that so far this is just an educated guess,” Bertha said, in that cold, clinical tone of hers that sobered you up better than a potion.

Fawley was not immune to it either. “Of course,” he said, once again taken aback, then left them.

“So… berserkers in Britain. That sounds like the title of a cheap novel,” Kenneth commented.

Bertha didn’t react to the joke. “We’ll have to go over the pensieve memories of the Hit-Wizard team, to look for clues.”

Kenneth groaned again,

*****

“They were definitely Scandinavians,” Kenneth said, hours later. “Only they would wear such unfashionable robes.”

“Yes. The style is rather distinctive. Very close to muggle clothes,” Bertha agreed.

“You know I wasn’t entirely serious.” He turned to her. They really needed a way to speed up sifting through memories.

“It’s a valid observation, though a Nordic tongue being used is more solid evidence of the ambushers’ origin.”

“Good enough to pass to Bones then.” He checked his watch. “And afterwards, we’ll need to eat something. I’m starving.” He hesitated a second, then added: “My treat.”

Bertha nodded, acknowledging his invitation, and started to compile the report for Bones.

He studied her while he waited, occasionally adding an observation of his, enjoying the small frown the witch showed when she had to rearrange her report to include his addition.

An hour later they were finally in Diagon Alley. Bertha seemed surprised when he led her past the Leaky Cauldron, and once more when they entered the ‘Marquise’, one of the more expensive restaurants in Wizarding London. Fortunately, the war had scared so many people into staying in their homes as much as possible, Kenneth had managed to get a reservation easily enough. A small, intimate table, even, at a window. Then again, most people prefered not to be that exposed these days.

But he was a Gryffindor, and an Auror. He wasn’t afraid of Death Eaters attacking Diagon Alley. Or of what he was about to do. Though he was a bit nervous. Maybe even more nervous than before an undercover mission involving Aberforth Dumbledore. But he couldn’t wait that much longer. They were at war, and they could die any time, even when checking on a routine call, as today had shown. And he’d be rather angry with himself if he died without confessing to Bertha.

After casting a privacy spell, he took a deep breath, looked at his partner, and opened his mouth.

Before he could say anything though, Bertha spoke: “You’re about to ask me out, right?”

He gaped at her. What… how....

She nodded, a smile playing over her lips. “You’ve been acting odder than normal for some time, you’ve invited me into one of the most expensive restaurants, and you seem rather nervous.”

He groaned. “Yes.”

“Yes, you’re asking me out?” A hint of teasing coloured her voice.

He wasn’t certain if that was a good sign, but the kneazle was out of the bag already. “Yes.”

He was about to say more, but once more she cut him off with a smile: “Finally.”

Once more he gaped. Did she just…?

“Mathilda bet me I’d have to take the initiative.”

What? He blinked. “You’ve known… why didn’t you say anything?” He sounded more hurt than he wanted.

Now Bertha took a deep breath. “I wanted you to ask. I wanted you to work this out, to be certain of your feelings.” She leaned forward. “You are certain, aren’t you?”

Kenneth nodded.

She smiled. “It was also fun to watch you.”

Mathilda Miller had a lot to answer for, Kenneth thought. She had corrupted his partner. That should have been his job!

He was far more relieved and happy than angry, of course - he had been nervous. Bertha wasn’t like the girls he had known before, and he hadn’t been certain that she’d return his feelings.

“Shouldn’t you be kissing me now?”

He stared at her for a moment, wondering if she was once again teasing him, or serious, then decided it didn’t matter. “Yes. Yes, I should,” he said, as he stood up.

She met him halfway.

*****

Albus Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump of the ICW, smiled at Ottokar Steiner, the delegate of Magical Prussia, as the two of them ordered in a small restaurant in Geneva. “It is good to see you, Ottokar. How are things in Berlin?”

The Prussian wizard shrugged. “There’s nothing of note happening. Unlike in Britain, our internal disputes are not solved with violence.” Nothing the diplomat would tell Albus. Grindelwald’s old followers making waves was still the boggart for many of the continental politicians.

“It is not so internal anymore,” Albus pointed out. “We have had Scandinavian werewolves attack us on our soil.”

Ottokar made a dismissive gesture. “A few malcontents and hotheads. Individuals, not unlike the mercenaries fighting on both sides already.”

“Technically, yes,” the old wizard said, nodding, “but we both know that the Scandinavian government tolerates, if not encourages such adventures.”

“We may know it, but we lack any proof.” Ottokar’s tone left no doubt that he was certain that they would never have proof either.

“That is true. But unless you’re preparing to pass quite the progressive werewolf legislation, you might be facing such incursion from ‘individual malcontents’ next,” Albus said, meeting the Prussian’s eyes. “After all, Grindelwald styled himself as a champion of creature rights as well, and your government made their stance on his ideology very clear.”

Ottokar drew a hissing breath. “He just wanted cheap curse fodder.”

“You and I know it. I was there and fought them,” Albus said, flashes of those times running through his mind for an instant. Ottokar nodded. He had been there as well, but on the other side. A youth, as misled by Gellert as Albus had been. No, he admitted to himself - Albus’s own arrogance and hubris had misled him, Gellert had simply provided some ideas. “But will they believe it? And what will happen if the Scandinavians are contacted by Grindelwald’s remaining followers?”

“I would expect them to have learned their lesson and stick to their own country, once you are done with them. For the Vanquisher of Grindelwald, a bunch of werewolves shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Oh, I do not expect much trouble from them either, in Britain,” Albus said. Not more than from Voldemort’s regular forces, at least. “But there are so many little villages and packs in Scandinavia, always feuding with each other, they might not be deterred from further trips by the fate of their own rivals. Especially if that fate had befallen them in Britain, my home, and they were planning to visit the continent. After all, the internal matters of another country are none of my business, aren’t they?”

Ottokar actually hissed now. “Would you really wait while Grindelwald’s supporters make a bid for power?”

Albus sounded as unconcerned as possible as he answered: “Without Grindelwald, they are just another group of dark wizards. An internal matter for Prussia.”

“We can’t sanction another country for the actions of individuals. Not without proof that the government supports them.”

“That is true. But we can expect any country to keep their dangerous creatures from attacking other countries. Magical Greece certainly was reprimanded quite sharply for failing to control their creatures when a Hydra wandered up the Albanian Coast.” He didn’t like lumping werewolves together with creatures, but if it helped persuade Ottokar...

“That was also because of the threat to the Statute,” Ottokar said.

“Also, but not just. We have a precedent, at least.” Albus smiled at the waiter who brought their meals. Magical Geneva had some of the best cooks in Europe.

“What exactly do you want from them?”

Albus hid his smile this time, though he knew he had won when Ottokar stopped being evasive or contrary. “I want them to make the same effort to keep their hotheads from bothering other countries as they do to uphold the Statute. But I will settle for an honest effort.”

“You know they won’t be impressed enough to make an honest effort. What are you really after?”

Perceptive. “I’m just laying the groundwork for the future.” As if he’d show his cards to the Prussian just because he had asked. He had plans to deal with the problem in Scandinavia, but that wasn’t something he could talk about.

Otokar snorted. “How many delegates have you talked about this with already?”

Albus smiled politely. He was meeting with the delegate from Magical France later this evening, and Russia, Austria and Poland tomorrow. If those countries agreed, the rest would fall in line. His reputation would guarantee it.

Seeing Albus wouldn’t answer, Ottokar sighed. “You’ll have my support, though Prussia expects support as well, should we catch the same disease as Britain.”

“You will get the same support as we received, no worry,” Albus said.

Ottokar understood what he was saying, judging by his sour expression. Albus smiled broadly - there were some good points to this trip. Reminding Prussia that what went around came around was one of them. It wasn’t as if he expected unending gratitude for doing what was right, but favors had to be repaid in politics.

*****

Paige Caldwell ran a hand over the bandage on her arm. Even days after that… terrifying man had caught her, she was scared of using magic. Grateful to be alive and free too, of course. But mostly scared. She was still hunted by the Dark Lord, by the Scandinavians, and by the British Ministry.

And she couldn’t really use magic. Not without calling attention to the muggle hut she was hiding in. That was how Dumbledore’s brother had found her, or so she thought. So she had to live like a muggle. At least she had wolfsbane for a year. By then, things should have cooled down. She could survive without magic for a year. She had to. Unless she found a way to sneak out of this godsforsaken country.

She could disillusion herself, and sneak on one of the giant muggle ships. Hide until they reached another country. One she wasn’t wanted in. She clenched her fist, ignoring the pain that caused. She could do it - if she dared.

Sighing, she sat down on the cot she was using again. She had to heal up first. And without magic, that would take quite some time. Time she might not have, depending on when the muggle owner of this hut visited the next time. At least the heating had started, automatically even, so she wasn’t freezing anymore. But food still was a problem. She had stolen a lot, and stored it in her bag, but that was bound to run out sooner rather than later.

Maybe she should risk stowing away anyway, no matter her wounds. Anywhere would be better than here. Even the Americas.

*****

Hermione Granger handed another batch of notes, the results of her latest optimisation efforts, over to the Headmaster. She had had them ready days ago, not long after Dumbledore had finally procured her a useful tome, but the old wizard had been busy in Geneva the last few days.

“Thank you Miss Granger. I see you’ve made progress…”

When the old wizard trailed off, she knew he had seen her ‘variant ritual’. He looked up, straight at her. She nodded, and he started to study her notes again. Probably more carefully now, she thought.

After a while, he put the notes down. “A remarkable idea, Miss Granger. It seems this is the breakthrough you’ve been striving for.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yet… a Dementor?”

Hermione bit her lower lip. “I know this is… very difficult to acquire. But there is nothing else that has a similarly powerful and matching symbolism for the ritual.” Nothing else, so far, that would reduce the price the ritual demanded like that.

“I see. But will you be able to conduct the ritual, in the presence of such a creature?”

She wasn’t certain the Dementors could be called creatures, but she nodded. “My Occlumency should allow me to function.” She met his eyes, and felt him probe her defenses. In response, she concentrated on resisting him, grinding her teeth as the pain caused by his attempts grew worse and worse.

Finally he relented. “I think you might be correct, Miss Granger.” He didn’t look exhausted, unlike she felt, but he seemed… slightly tired, maybe. “But that leaves us with two problems.”

“How to capture and store a Dementor.” She had thought about this for days. Researched and planned.

"That is correct, Miss Granger. It's not as much the actual capturing - they are remarkably vulnerable, if you can withstand their aura - nor the storing, since the cell we keep our other subject in would suffice, but the transport." Dumbledore sighed. "The creature will have to be in a cage, so that it may not flee. That will complicate the most obvious mode of transportation, a portkey, which will either transport the cage, or the creature. Apparation suffers from the same problem. If - and this is a big if - either even works on those creatures. The Ministry has never tried to transport them through such means. There is the Knight Bus, but its staff is not the most secret or discreet, and might not withstand the effects of a Dementor's close presence long enough to drive."

"We can use muggle transportation." She knew how to drive. Theoretically. She'd have to take a few lessons; nothing a spell and some polyjuice wouldn't net her.

"That is a good idea," Dumbledore smiled. "Although I think there's a better alternative. While brooms are clearly impractical, I own a Flying Carpet, a souvenir of sorts from the Ottoman Empire. While it is illegal to use them nowadays as anything but a floor covering, it will make transporting the cage quite easy." He had looked almost contemplative when he had said that, but he had a twinkle in his eyes when he added: "Flying safely will be much easier to learn than driving safely, Miss Granger."

Hermione didn’t quite blush in response to having been seen through so easily, but she came close. “Yes, sir.”

He grew serious again. “But that leaves the main problem: Finding such a creature. They are in the service of the Dark Lord, who has not used them much, if at all, since he made a deal with them. And if they are around, they will travel in packs”

Hermione nodded. “I know, sir. But the Dark Lord will certainly use them sooner or later.”

“I agree, but by that time it could be too late already.”

Hermione blinked. “Do you know what he is trying to do with his ritual then, sir?”

“I have an inkling, nothing more. But the power he is trying to harness is very impressive. If he found a way to use such a power - and why would he be working on that ritual, if he hadn’t a way in mind to use it - then we will be in a dire situation once he completes it.” Dumbledore sighed.

Hermione felt a stab of fear in her guts. She squared her shoulders though, and pushed her chin forward. She was a Gryffindor. “Then we need to force him to use them by depriving him of alternatives.”

“I fear that will be needed, despite the cost in lives.” Dumbledore looked resigned, or so she thought.

“The cost in lives will be much higher if he succeeds.” It was only logical.

“That is faint comfort, Miss Granger, trust me on this.”

“Yes, sir.” She didn’t really believe him, but this was not the time to bicker.

“I am quite relieved that you found a ritual that will do what is needed without endangering your own soul. On the other hand, things such as this should never be that easy, or more people will be trying to do them.”

“I have no intention of spreading this knowledge.” She waited a second, then added: “Apart from telling Harry, of course.” It would not help her plans for the time after her graduation at all.

“Of course. Where is he, by the way?”

“He’s training with Sirius and Remus.” And probably overdoing it, and getting hurt, Hermione thought. Not that Ron was any better. Their friend was duelling Parkinson, again, and usually came back quite battered, even if, as he was fond to mention, he always won.

*****

Pansy Parkinson was breathing heavily. Her left arm was numb and dangling uselessly down her side. She was certain her robe was torn, but to glance down and check would invite another barrage. And she couldn’t afford that. Her opponent was not showing her any mercy. She flicked her wand, and sent a dust cloud up and against him. When he moved to banish it back at her, she rushed to the side and forward, hidden from view for a second. She had her wand pointed at him before he could react. “Stupefy!”

Her spell was stopped by his Shield Charm, as she had expected. She was still running, charging him, from the side now. Her own robe stopped his spell. Almost close enough to show him the tricks Greg had taught her. Lets see his robe stop a kick. Her next spell hit and shattered his shield, and she didn’t stop.

She saw his blue eyes widen when she recklessly closed into ‘melee range’, as Greg called it. Her foot lashed out, barely hindered by her numb arm, straight between his legs. It didn’t hurt him, or her. Cushioning Charm, she realised. Before she could pull her leg back, he had grabbed it, and pulled it up.

She managed to send another hex at him which his robes stopped, then he tackled her and drove her to the ground. The impact knocked the breath out of her, and before she could do anything, she felt the tip of his wand under her chin. “Yield?”

Her left arm was still numb, one hand gripped her wand arm like a vise, and she was pinned beneath him. Beneath his body. His muscular body. She breathed slowly, feeling her chest heave and touch his. She squirmed a bit, and he pressed down on her. Merlin, she wanted…

“Yield?” His voice sounded more hoarse than it should, in her opinion.

She dropped her wand and licked her lips. For a moment, he stared at her eyes, and she thought, hoped, he’d…

Then he released her hand, pulled his wand back, and started to get up. She hissed with frustration, and her good hand shot up, grabbing his hair. His eyes widened and he made a surprised sound, his wand already pointing at her again, right before she mashed her lips against his.

Then both were groaning, moaning, and he was lying on top of her again, and his hands were wandering inside her torn robe, and she bit his lips and…

Later, she was lying on top of him, barely covered with the remains of her robe. His own was not quite shredded. Somehow he had managed to pull it off, and hung from the chair to the side. She could move her left arm again, and was tracing his chest muscles with the tip of her finger. One arm of his was on her back

“That was some duel,” he said, the first words either had said, as far as she remembered, since ‘yield’.

“Mh.” She smirked at him. He had that glint in his eyes, and pulled the remains of her robe away.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore wished that his brother had contacted him with a post owl, instead of a communication mirror. That way he would have a message to tear up and set on fire. And an owl to scare. “Have you gone crazy?”

“It is needed, Aberforth. We cannot afford to have more werewolves leave Scandinavia for Britain.” His brother’s voice sounded regretful, but firm. Just as it sounded when he had tried to explain why two girls would be sacrificed for politics.

“I’m not going to do it, Albus. I’ve still got a conscience. Hunting down the Dark Lord’s agents is one thing, but this?”

“We are not talking about innocents, but violent werewolves who are used to raid their neighbours.”

“Making them start feuding again will cause innocents to suffer!” Aberforth shouted, the privacy spells cast beforehand muffling his outburst.

“Yes. But not doing this will cause more innocents to suffer in Britain, and directly help the Dark Lord.”

“That’s it then? A numbers game?” Aberforth wanted to smash the mirror against the next wall. Wanted to leave this country.

“Effectively, yes. I am weighing all of Britain versus a few possible victims in Scandinavia.“ Albus met his gaze, not flinching. He hadn’t changed at all.

“And that makes it right?” Aberforth was shaking with rage.

“It does not make it right, but it makes it the least evil choice,” his brother said.

Aberforth spat out: “So, it’s for the Greater Good, Albus?”

His brother face lost all colour. He could see him tremble even - with shock, or fury. He couldn’t tell. He hadn’t seen his brother showing either in decades, and felt guilt fill him, pushing the rage away. He fought it, while he stared at the mirror, at his brother, but finally pressed out: “I’m sorry. That was cruel. I shouldn’t have said it.” Some things they didn’t mention. At all.

Albus nodded slowly. When he spoke, he was slower than usual as well, as if he had trouble finding the right words. “Please. It’s important. I would not ask this of you if there was another way.”

Aberforth knew it was wrong, but nodded.

“Thank you.” Albus had the grace not to smile, at least, when Aberforth shut the mirror off.

*****

Ejnar Borge grinned. This time, the ambush would work as planned! Instead of caught in a village, easy prey for flying enemies, they were in an old forest. Unless you were a world-class Seeker, you couldn’t fly well enough to dodge spells there. And the trees provided cover and concealment for his band. It was the perfect setup to fight those British. And fight his band would.

A brief flicker of light drew his attention. Someone had arrived. The enemy, he was certain. No one else had a reason to visit this spot of the forest. A dozen of them, by his count.

“Alright, fan out and search the place. If there’s a child here who has just used accidental magic, we’ll know it.” Ejnar heard the leader of the grey-robed Hit-Wizards yell and knew his ruse had worked. Now the British bastards just needed to come close enough...

He could smell them now. They were cautious, approaching under cover of others. It wouldn’t help them. Almost… then he cursed under his breath. One of them had cast a Human-presence-revealing Spell. “Fawley! Here are three people hiding nearby!”

They were made! Ejnar stood up and charged ahead, out of the underbrush. The enemy leader saw him, but before he could react, Afi landed right on top of him, driving him into the soft soil on the ground. A quick pair of piercing curses finished him before Ejnar reached the two. “Good work.”

“As planned.”

Not everyone had been as quick though. Dverger had tried to duplicate the feat, but had missed. The young man would not get to try again. Another, Geiri, had ran straight into a Blasting Curse. Ejnar doubted the lad had noticed the spell before he had been dead.

Around him, spells flashed and shields flared in a confused mess. There were no frontlines. The enemy commander was dead. It was a chaotic affair, something that fit his band. One by one he saw his comrades succumb to bloodlust, drawing blades instead of using their wands. Nothing but the utter destruction of the enemy would stop them now.

Ejnar howled, then let the rage fill him as well and charged at the closest grey-robed enemy, his wand disarming the boy before he smashed into him, his dagger already drawing blood from multiple cuts.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort held up the latest crystal globe, smiling proudly. Together with his latest improvement for the ritual’s formula, he had managed to perfect the ritual. It was still untested, but he was confident it would work. He could do another test, the next full moon, but the full moon after that would be during Yuletide. As it was very close to the Winter Solstice it would be further empowering the ritual if he used the correct symbolism, if not by much. But at the same time the Ministry and Hogwarts would be empty. And that would not help his plans. No, he would strike during the next full moon.

He leaned back in his chair. Bellatrix, on the bed behind him, noticed. “Have you finished it my lord?”

He nodded. “It still remains to be tested, but I’m quite confident this will work out.” He pointed at the globe. “This is the key. Without it, my plan wouldn’t work.” Well, without the globe, and without werewolves.

“It’s magnificient, my lord!” Bellatrix slid from the bed and walked on bare feet over to him, her eyes seemingly captivated by the crystal.

It was magnificent. It had taken him days to compose the runes, even longer to etch them into the globe. The crystal itself had been carved by goblins, not using any magic. If the beasts knew what it, or rather, one of the next globes, would be used for… he chuckled. Doomed by their own greed, how fitting!

Bella wrapped her arms around him from behind and rested her chin on his shoulder. “How can I help you, Master?”

“By standing and fighting at my side when I use this, at Yuletide.” She couldn’t help with the ritual, but there was no one else he’d rather have at his side in battle.

Her ecstatic smile could have lit up the room.

*****


	56. Monsters

**Chapter 56: Monsters**

Ejnar Borge screamed with rage as he stabbed and slashed the Hit-Wizard in front of him. The boy’s own screams of pain and terror were cut off by Ejnar’s blade opening his windpipe, and the British wizard fell, choking on his own blood and trying to stem the bleeding from the gash in his chest with hands that had already lost fingers. The werewolf kicked the enemy in the chest, smashing him into the tree behind him, and whirled around to look for the next foe.

Next to him, Afi was on the ground, fighting with another Hit-Wizard. His cousin’s blade was broken, as was his enemy’s wand, and both were pounding each other. Ejnar left them; Afi was stronger and more experienced and would prevail. Instead he rushed towards a tree where an older wizard was standing, cursing Bjorn who was slamming himself into the man’s shield.

Ejnar reached them right when the protections on Bjorn’s robes failed, and saw the young werewolf fall back, his chest torn open. He roared, and shattered the man’s shield with a Piercing Curse, then leapt at him.

“Diffindo!”

The man was quick, but his Cutting Curse was stopped by Ejnar’s robes, mostly, and the taller, stronger werewolf smashed into the British wizard, driving him into the tree that had protected his back. He followed up with a headbutt that smashed the man’s nose, then bit his throat, tasting blood, while his dagger sliced into his enemy’s belly, disemboweling him. He relished the man’s screams, laughing and yelling while the British bastard died.

Growling, he turned around to look for another opponent, another victim, but found no one. Covered with blood, British and his own, he panted while his rage started to dwindle. The battle was over. His band had won.

Over a dozen werewolves howled in triumph. It was a poor imitation of the howl of a transformed pack, but it rang through the forest where they had ambushed the Hit-Wizards, telling man and animals alike who this territory belonged to.

It felt good. This was why they had come to Britain - to fight the British, and beat them. To avenge the murder of werewolves. Shivering, his vision seemed to clear when the last of his rage left him. They had killed a dozen Hit-Wizards, yes. But they had not won without cost. Dverger, Geiri, Bjorn and Hallr were dead. Everyone else was wounded, but that was to be expected - a berserker who wasn’t bleeding hadn’t been fighting.

Ejnar frowned. They had ambushed the British, surprised them on a battleground that played to their strengths while outnumbering them, and yet had lost four of their number. Those Hit-Wizards were good. When the full moon came and his band transformed, such a battle could be the end of them.

“Episkey.”

His wounds closed, he sought out Afi. His cousin had just finished treating Mikel, who had been struck with an exotic curse that had started to skin him. He looked like he’d live now though.

“Afi.”

When the other werewolf looked at him, Ejnar nodded to the edge of the small clearing they were in. His cousin nodded, grabbed the two pieces of his blade, and repaired it while he followed Ejnar.

“We’ve got a problem come the full moon,” Ejnar said.

Afi looked confused. “We’ve got Wolfsbane for everyone. Or whatever the government’s trying to call it now.”

Ejnar chuckled. Some werewolves took offence to the name of the potion, claiming it besmirched the gift they had received. As if they had nothing more important to care about. He grew serious quickly though. “No, that’s not the issue. But if we get into a battle under the full moon, we’ll get slaughtered.”

Afi opened his mouth, then closed it. “You’re right. We’ll not be able to deal with their spells.”

Not even with Wolfsbane protecting their minds would they be able to work magic. At home, those wizards and witches not part of the pack would take up the slack, and the fights would be even more ferocious as transformed wolves went at each other, but here? The British would not meet them in an honourable melee, but fly away and send curses at them from above, protected by their shields.

Ejnar nodded. “We’ll have to hide.”

“The band won’t like that. They have tasted blood,” Afi cautioned him.

“I know. That’s why we’ll be holding a Sharing,” Ejnar said.

Afi drew a hissing breath. “Sharing our gifts? Who in Britain would… you mean, kidnapping people?”

Ejnar nodded. Usually, the gift of the wolf was shared with volunteers, often relatives of a wolf, in a sacred ceremony under the full moon. Not all new wolves were volunteers though - people being people, accidents did happen. Some wolves liked to forego the potion, and some of them occasionally happened upon humans.

“The traditionalists won’t like it.”

“None of them are with us. The band will understand. And given the hatred of werewolves, anyone we share our gift with will be forced to join us, or face death at the hands of their former friends,” Ejnar said.

“I hope that’s true, cousin. Even so, we’ll need to find a suitable place, and prepare the wards. There’s not much time left.” Afi sounded sceptical still.

Ejnar didn’t care. The search would keep the band busy while they healed up. The search for a good spot to hold their ceremony, and for those who would receive the gift. It might not be the triumphant, bloody raid they had imagined, but it would hurt the British anyway.

*****

“We should take the day off. Or, better, the entire week.”

Kenneth Fenbrick didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to work. He didn’t want to do anything but spend time with Bertha Limmington. Preferably in bed, or in the bathtub, but she had proven to have a very fertile imagination, so he was certain he could add a few more locations, given time.

“Bones doesn’t like it when Aurors try to take time off without advanced notice,” his partner - in more than one sense of the word, now! - pointed out.

“Sod Bones! We haven’t had time off in… I can’t actually remember when we last had time off.”

Bertha shook her head slightly. “Too much firewhiskey then.”

“Hey!”

She smirked, and slid out of the bed. Kenneth forgot whatever he had wanted to say while he watched her summon her wand and walk over to the bathroom, past the heap in which her clothes had ended up last night. When the door closed behind her, he yelled: “If we get another difficult case I’ll tell you I told you so!”

*****

“I told you so.”

“So you did.”

Kenneth grumbled. It wasn’t fun if Bertha didn’t care that he had told her so. “If you had listened to me we could be back home in bed, instead of knee-deep in corpses in some godsforsaken forest.” But his partner thought that when duty called, Aurors had to answer. Or something trite like that.

He glanced at her. She was already running her wand over a rip in a tree’s bark. The witch looked focused, cool, collected. No one who’d see her now would expect her to be a passionate lover.

He sighed. If not for the Dark Lord and those foreign werewolves, they’d be able to take a vacation right now. Once the war was over, he would cash in all his accumulated leave, and not deal with any case again until he ran out!

That vow made, Kenneth looked at the carnage they had been called to. It did look horrible. A dozen Hit-Wizards, three squads, butchered. Literally, or so it appeared. He waved his wand and checked the wounds on the body of a young man, practically a boy. Gutted like a fish, the poor bastard had died slowly. No trace of a curse on that wound - it had been a blade, not a spell that had killed the guy.

The two other corpses he checked next matched that profile, as did most parts of a dismembered witch. He stood up from where he had crouched next to that body, and walked over to Bertha. “Either the Death Eaters suddenly stopped using wands, or this was the work of our Nordic invaders.”

“There were spells cast, on both sides,” his partner said.

“Yes. But not the kind of spells the Dark Lord’s minions tend to use.” Not many dark spells.

The witch nodded in agreement. “That’s my preliminary conclusion as well.”

Kenneth looked around, trying to imagine the battle. “It was an ambush,” he said. “They were surprised. The enemy managed to get right among them, scattered them, and then overwhelmed them. Not exactly the Hit-Wizards’ finest hour.”

“Their awareness and tactics were less than optimal,” Bertha said, agreeing with him.

“At least they took a few of them down with them.” There hadn’t been corpses left, but the tracks left were enough to see that the wizards hadn’t died alone. “Did you find any tracks or traces of the attackers? A clue where they went?”

Bertha shook her head. “They were very careful. Some blood was left, but nothing else.”

He cursed under his breath. “Then we can’t do anything but wait for their next attack. And hope whoever runs into them can call for help.”

Bertha nodded. “If they are Scandinavian, then they might grow too aggressive during the full moon, and succumb to better tactics.”

“The murderers have to be Scandinavians. Who else would use blades in battle? Even the muggles stopped with that long ago.” Which made the debacle here doubly embarrassing, Kenneth thought. To be killed with blades…

“Someone who wants us to suspect that those were Scandinavian invaders.” Bertha ignored that he had asked rhetorically.

He understood what she meant though. “You mean the Dark Lord wants us to blame Scandinavia, hoping we’ll end up fighting them?”

Bertha nodded.

Kenneth sighed. It was just a theory, probably wrong, but he just knew that the Ministry wouldn’t be eager to take Scandinavia to task for this. And they still needed to come up with tactics to deal with this sort of fighting.

*****

Ron Weasley dodged another stunner by dropping to the ground and turning the debris from his opponent’s last Blasting Hex into a smoke screen. As soon as he touched the floor he rolled to the left, just before another stunner flew through the smoke. He scrambled back and disillusioned himself, then moved to the right, circling around Parkinson.

He didn’t see her though - she must have disillusioned herself too.

“Homenum Revelio,” he whispered, aiming his wand at the other side of the smoke. If she thought he was still hiding in that…

Parkinson became visible where he had thought she’d be. His first stunner was stopped by her shield, the next by her robe, and then she was inside the smoke.

It didn’t do her any good. He vanished it, exposing her once more. Then she started to cast the Human-presence-revealing Spell herself. She managed to expose him right when he tagged her with a modified Body-Binding Curse that left her spread-eagled and stuck to the nearest wall. A Disarming Charm later and the duel was over.

Ron walked over to her, limping slightly. She must have spotted it, since she smirked, and he decided to not cancel his curse until he had reached her.

“Good duel. You should have cast the Human-presence-revealing Spell earlier though,” he said.

“I know. That’s an interesting spell. Granger’s work?”

He nodded. “An experiment, she said.” Hermione hadn’t explained what the purpose of the experiment had been, but the spell looked and sounded different enough to fool some opponents, or so he guessed.

“You can let me down now,” she said.

He almost said he’d never let her down, but that would have been either creepy or sappy. Instead he stepped up to her.

“Yes, I could.”

He leaned forward and kissed her, ending the spell before he ended the kiss. She wrapped her freed limbs around him, and they sank down to the floor.

*****

Albus Dumbledore smiled as Ottokar Steiner, the representative of Magical Prussia finished his speech in front of the ICW. If he hadn’t been the Supreme Mugwump, he’d wave his lit wand, signalling support for the man’s demand, like others did.

He glanced over at Kalle Lofgren, the representative of Magical Scandinavia. The admitted werewolf was growling. He had a reason to, Albus knew - it looked like the ICW would warn his country that they would not tolerate an invasion, no matter how much Scandinavia claimed that those were individuals acting on their own. Apart from his own contacts and favours owed, the fact that Scandinavian werewolves were known to bite muggles in much greater numbers than could be attributed to accidents had been decisive. Attacking muggles always threatened the Statute of Secrecy, after all.

He knew his esteemed colleagues wouldn’t really have seen a threat to the Statute of Secrecy if there hadn’t been the threat of such attacks happening in their own countries, at the hands or claws of foreign werewolves. Albus didn’t like painting the werewolves as a menace, though he couldn’t overlook the fact that they currently were attacking Britain, and that they were Voldemort’s most numerous supporters. The Dark Lord couldn’t be allowed to grow stronger, not with his ritual progressing.

Albus didn’t know for certain how close the Dark Lord was to succeeding in his research, but he could tell - thanks to the sins of his own youth - that Tom wouldn’t take much longer. The full moon in December was so close to the winter solstice; the lure of the additional power a ritual at that time would grant him would be irresistible to the Dark Lord. Which meant Albus would have to deal with the Nordic problem before that time.

Marie Mercier, the representative of Magical France, was next to speak. The witch was young for her position, which prompted rumours of her being the lover of the Duc d’Orléans - or a lover, at least. It was said that the Ducs had continued the royal tradition of having Veela mistresses when Magical France split from France in 1692. Though in her elegant robes, the _dernier cri_ from Paris, she certainly didn’t have to hide behind any Veela.

Marie had a sharp wit and a sharper tongue, and her speech was both entertaining and supportive. Unfortunately, she too raised the spectre of bloodthirsty werewolf hordes invading the European shores in the footsteps of their Viking ancestors. At least, Albus thought, they’d not be using longboats to travel up the Seine to attack Paris. He felt guilty again for having brought up the shade of Grindelwald in connection with werewolves. Although he was certain that the cause of the werewolves would suffer even more, should they continue their aggressive policy towards their neighbours. It had taken Magical Prussia decades to recover its reputation from those dark days, and they hadn’t had a reputation as monsters reaching back millennia.

Elena Romanova was next, representing Magical Russia. The Tsar’s eldest daughter cut a striking figure in a fur-lined Russian duellist’s robe. Albus made a note that the rumours of her angling to replace the Tsarevich might not be entirely unfounded, if she had started to cultivate a more martial image compared to the revealing robes she had worn in the past. Or, he thought, she might simply be trying to scare off unwanted suitors - he had heard from Marek Pasternak that the Tsar had been hinting rather strongly that she should marry and settle down. The Polish Government kept close eyes on their eastern neighbour, and so they were usually well-informed about the latest developments in Russia.

Elena’s statement could be summed up in two sentences: Russia feared no invader. Anyone trying to break the peace in Europe would be harshly punished. She took a quarter hour though to say it, with far too many words and far too little wit for Albus’s patience. But as he had hoped after his talk with her, she too supported the motion.

Marek’s speech came after hers, but Albus didn’t really pay attention to the Polish delegate. He was certain of their vote already; Poland had suffered the most under Grindelwald, and honoured those who had toppled the Dark Lord.

Karl von Habsburg though needed watching. Contrary to their muggle counterpart, the Habsburg line of Magical Austria had not died out. It had been a near thing though, and the results of severe inbreeding haunted them to this day. Karl was no exception. The son of the Emperor of Magical Austria-Hungary was charming, handsome and about as smart as a Puffskein. It was said in some circles, far out of the earshot of anyone from Austria of course, that every smart Austrian Habsburg would be either abrasive or sickly. Albus had never bothered to ascertain the truth of that barb himself, but he knew that the true voice of the Emperor was Karl’s secretary Anneliese, a confidant of his mother. Fortunately, Karl managed to deliver the speech Anneliese had written without stumbling or causing an incident.

Albus leaned back, relaxing. He looked at Lofgren, whose mood had worsened with each speech aimed at his country. With the support of all major powers in Magical Europe, the motion would be carried. It was merely a gesture, of course - no country would actually go to war over it, Cornelius had confirmed that by talking to the actual rulers and governments of Magical Europe - but it would put pressure on Scandinavia. And once Aberforth accomplished his mission, the Scandinavians would be as good as removed as a factor in the war against Voldemort.

He felt guilty at using his brother like this, but there was no choice. There simply were not many wizards Albus could trust with this, and none that had his brother’s skill with a wand. And, he told himself again, it wasn’t as if Aberforth had no experience in these sorts of matters.

As much as he justified his actions though - and they were justified, seeing as they’d save many innocents in Britain, both wizards and werewolves - he also knew that it might very well cost him what slim chance of reconciliation with his brother that he still had.

And yet, this was a price he was willing to pay. Better he suffer, than anyone else.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore, covered by a Disillusionment Charm and with his scent masked by a potion originally invented by African Wizards to sneak up on Nundus, stared at the small village hidden in one of the larger forests of of the Scandinavian peninsula. It looked nice, with the villagers just doing their daily chores. Some tending to the fields and herds - he could see the spells cast from his position easily - and others milling around. The picture of a peaceful little village.

And he’d have to break that peace. Force them to fight. He didn’t want to. Though if he was honest, he didn’t mind it that much. Those villagers had sent people to Britain, to raid and pillage the country. Werewolves. The village wasn’t really peaceful, despite its appearance. If not for the alliance it had entered with its neighbours, they’d likely have wands out, ready to defend their own village, or attack the others. Aberforth knew how the Nordic wizards thought and fought from personal experience.

No, what he hated was that he was following Albus’s orders, as if he was one of his brother’s minions. Doing the dirty work for the great Headmaster. Just like his friends did the dirty work for the Ministry in this war, he reminded himself.

“Damn you, Albus!” he whispered, then mounted his broom and flew towards the field that was farthest from the village. Getting detected at this point might ruin the entire mission, despite his disguise.

No one seemed to notice him as he flew over the field, descending near a lone young man - almost a boy still - who was removing weeds from the fields with his wand. Sprout would be appalled at the state of the field, Aberforth thought, since the wizard didn’t look like he was skilled, or paying much attention. Hopefully that meant he didn’t like honest work, and wanted to become a great warrior - it would help his mission.

He pointed his wand at the man and cast a Compulsion Charm, causing the Nordic wizard to ‘take a leak’ in the nearby forest. Aberforth followed him, waited until he was out of sight of the village, then stunned him. A minute later, he was on his way to the next village.

*****

That village looked almost identical to the one he had observed earlier, Aberforth thought. And yet they had been feuding for decades, as he had found out from his prisoner. Scandinavians! He shook his head at their folly. Between the revival of the worship of the Norse Pantheon, and the acceptance of werewolves as not only equal members of Wizarding society, but highly valued leaders, it was no surprise that they ended up ready to fight at the drop of a hat.

He studied the area, taking note of where the guards were placed. It wouldn’t be too hard to attack it, even accounting for the fact that he wouldn’t be able to show his full skill. He’d hit the east side. There was a lone building, and a field where cows were grazing.

Decision made, he turned back to his stunned prisoner and cut a several hairs from the man’s head, dropping one of them in a vial. A swallow later, he was decades younger and looked like the man’s twin. Pointing his wand at the wizard, he hesitated. The villager didn’t have to die. Aberforth could obliviate him, and drop him off far away from here. Could even erase all his memories, and replace them with a fake life. He scoffed at his thoughts. His prisoner’s mind would have been replaced; he’d have been killed for all purposes.

Aberforth wasn’t Albus, hiding behind technicalities, trying to fool his own conscience. He knew what he was doing. And, he told himself, the prisoner had admitted under Veritaserum that he was trying to join ‘the fight in Britain’ as soon as he could reach a recruiter from the Dark Lord. Aberforth’s wand didn’t waver.

“Diffindo.”

Three Vanishing Charms took care of the body, the head, and the blood. Then Aberforth marched off to start a war.

He didn’t quite sneak up on the village, but he stayed away from the main road, walking slowly until he was used to his new, temporary body.

“Hey! What are you doing here?”

He turned towards the witch who had yelled at him. She didn’t look much older than his body. Another warrior who had just been a bit too inexperienced for their raid to Britain, probably.

He didn’t bother answering; he understood her well enough, but his accent would threaten his disguise. Instead he hit her with a Bludgeoning Curse that blew her back a few yards, and broke a dozen bones in her body. She’d live, of course, to remember his face.

He continued on, until he reached the field, and started to cut down cows and shrink their carcasses. He didn’t bother to be subtle; the guard he had hurt would soon call for help anyway. Just as expected, fireworks went off behind him, and he heard yells from the village.

Turning towards the road, he saw the first of those who had been milling around arrive.

“Confringo!”

The Blasting Curse ripped a crater into the road and showered the first villagers with rocks and dirt. They stopped, and fanned out, trying to surround him. It was time to fall back. He bought himself more time and space with a couple of Blasting Hexes, mixed with silent Compulsion Charms. When he had faded into the forest and apparated away, the villagers were enraged and on their way to attack their neighbours.

He reached their target first, on his broom and disillusioned. A few more, discreet compulsion spells cast on the people in the first village ensured that there would be no talking this out.

The enraged pursuers didn’t take long to reach the village, and didn’t stop to talk anyway. Aberforth didn’t look away when the battle started and curses flew, nor when blades met and blood was spilled. He had caused this, he was responsible, and he’d bear witness to his actions and their consequences. Only when the attackers started to retreat, with half the village burning, did he fly away.

He had two more villages to set upon each other.

*****

Sirius Black threw the Daily Prophet down on the kitchen table in No. 12 Grimmauld Place, just missing his tea cup and the basket with the croissants, and snorted in disgust.

Valérie, wearing one of her barely-there ‘house robes’, picked it up before Kreacher could collect and dispose of it. The Veela skimmed through the articles on the front page. “According to this, the ICW condemns the attack on Britain by Scandinavian werewolves. Isn’t that a good thing?” She asked, turning towards him.

Sirius scoffed. “It’s useless posturing. Politics. We need wands, not words.”

She nodded, picking up her coffee and a croissant. “But it’s better than nothing. It might give some Scandinavians pause, and keep them from joining the Dark Lord.”

She was correct, but Sirius didn’t want to admit it, so he grumbled. If he had changed to Padfoot, he would even have growled. Instead, he grabbed a croissant himself. He used to prefer a British breakfast, but his lovers had changed that. Padfoot still wanted meat though, so he often mixed croissants and sausages. If he made an effort, he could gross out Remus with a bit of luck.

He sighed, thinking of his best friend. The news that foreign werewolves were attacking brave British Hit-Wizards had driven the anti-werewolf sentiments in Britain to new heights. He was worried about the strain and stress this put on Remus. His friend was, for all his Ravenclaw-like smarts, a Gryffindor first and foremost, not a Slytherin, and Sirius was afraid that Remus might take a stand one day, revealing his secret just to do something against the hatred. And Sirius had no idea how to stop that.

“What’s wrong?” Valérie asked, standing up and walking around the table to him.

He wasn’t about to lie to her. Not that he could; she knew him too well now. “I’m just… worried and impatient. Mostly worried.”

His fiancée stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders.

“Worried about the war, worried about Remus, worried about you.”

“The war seems to be going well. Things have improved a lot compared to the start,” Valérie commented.

“And that is what worries me. The Dark Lord hasn’t been seen in a long time, which means he’s probably preparing something truly horrible.” Aimed at Harry, likely, due to that thrice-damned prophecy.

Eugénie entered the kitchen, smiling at the two of them and grabbing the coffee pot. “Chantal and Laure are still asleep.”

Valérie giggled. Sirius doubted either of the two would be up before noon, not after that drinking contest with Fleur and Bill last night. Ah, to be young and foolish again… he groaned. A year ago, he’d have joined them, and done his best to drag everyone else into the contest as well. He really had become respectable. Grown up, even.

Valérie put her head on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m old. I just realised it.”

“You’re not old!” Eugénie exclaimed. “You’re in the full vigour of your prime!” He knew what she meant.

Valérie giggled, but didn’t comment. She did wrap her arms around him though, and slid into his lap.

“Oh, not that. But I’ve become ‘respectable’,” Sirius explained. “Used to be, I’d be right there, suffering a hangover.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Valérie asked.

“It’s not,“ he admitted, “but … everyone told me so often to grow up, I kind of didn’t want to just because.”

That caused more laughter, and some muttered comment from Kreacher he didn’t quite catch.

“More seriously though,” he said, “I do worry. We know the Dark Lord’s been recruiting, for months, and yet we haven’t seen any big attack since the Hogwarts Express. We haven’t seen Dementors around at all.” He had checked, for Dumbledore.

“You think they are gathering their forces, and will attack en masse.” Eugénie looked grim now.

“It would make sense. One big attack, or a lot of smaller attacks, aimed at overwhelming us,” Sirius said, running one hand over Valérie’s back. “And with the Ministry occupied and distracted by this werewolf madness, I’m afraid they’re not as prepared as they should be.”

Valérie and Eugénie nodded. “We will be, though,” Eugénie stated. “The ‘eadmaster will be prepared as well.”

“‘ow is Remus doing?” Valérie asked.

“He hasn’t broken down yet. But I don’t know how long he’ll support this …” Sirius trailed off, and waved his hand towards the Daily Prophet. “All of this. He has been broken up about his furry little problem since his childhood.”

“I think ‘is real problem is the people, not the fur,” Valérie said.

Sirius nodded. “I need to keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t … do something stupid.”

“We will keep an eye on him,” Eugénie said. Valérie nodded.

Sirius smiled. “Thank you.”

“It’s what family does.”

Sirius really wanted to turn into Padfoot right then, before they saw the tears in his eyes. But with Valérie in his lap, he couldn’t.

*****

Harry Potter waited until Ron had entered the former classroom they had turned into their private lounge and laboratory, then waved his wand at him. Hermione joined him. Ron froze when various spells flew over his body.

“Hey! What are you doing?” their best friend demanded, his hair slightly frizzy from Harry’s last spell.

“What you asked me to!” Harry grinned

“Are you mental? I asked you to smother me with spells?”

Harry smiled. “You said that if you ever dated Parkinson, I should check you for ‘love potions, Polyjuice, and charms’.”

While Ron stared at him with his mouth hanging open, Hermione added: “We just did that. You’re clean, by the way.”

“We’re not dating!”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What do you call it then? You’re meeting her every second evening for some ‘duelling’ that ends with you two shagging.”

“How… why… the map!” Ron stammered.

“Of course,” Hermione said. “Did you expect we’d not keep an eye on you when you’re alone with a Slytherin?” She stressed ‘Slytherin’, and Harry saw Ron wince.

“I didn’t expect to be… not during sex!”

“You’re most vulnerable during sex, naked and without your wand,” Harry pointed out.

“We’re usually not naked,“ Ron protested.

“That’s interesting, but not the point,” Hermione said.

Ron sat down on the couch and closed his eyes.

Harry felt a bit guilty at ribbing his best friend like this, but after years of complaints about Slytherins in general, and about Parkinson in particular, he felt entitled to it. Still, given his own relationship, and its slightly troubled start, maybe he should stop. He sat down next to Ron while Hermione took a seat in the armchair.

“So… if you’re not dating, what are you doing then? Casual sex?” It was their Year of Discovery, after all.

“Yes… maybe… I guess?” Ron shrugged, with a grimace. “We just, you know, meet, fight, and f… have sex,” he added with a glance at Hermione. “Not exactly a base for a relationship.”

“That sounds as if you’d like one,” Harry ventured.

Hermione nodded, but didn’t say anything. He knew she still wasn’t that fond of the Slytherin witch.

“I don’t know.” Ron leaned back. “And I don’t know what she wants.”

“Apart from you.” Harry couldn’t resist.

“Har har,” was his friend’s sarcastic reply.

Hermione chuckled. “Maybe you should talk to her.”

“We do talk to each other!”

“Other than criticising the duel, that is.” Hermione shook her head.

“Are you spying on us?” Ron stared at her.

“No, but we know how you act in the Self-Defense Club sessions,” the witch said. “Not too hard to guess what you’re talking about.”

“We do talk about other things as well. Just not… that.”

“Well, you should change that,” Hermione said.

Harry coughed. His girlfriend was a bit too blunt, in his opinion. “But only if you want more than what you currently have.” Otherwise, Ron might risk losing a good thing for nothing.

“Great…”

*****

Ejnar Borge lowered the enchanted telescope, collapsed it, and slid down the hill he had been lying on top of to rejoin his band which was gathered at the hill’s foot. “Hogsmeade is locked up tight. It may not look like it, but I’m certain there are dozens of Aurors and Hit-Wizards ready to deploy there.”

“Then we won’t be able to capture wizards or witches there for the ceremony.” Afi frowned. His cousin had become more enthusiastic for the plan since they had first talked about it, but he still wasn’t too much of an optimist.

“No. We have a few options though. We can try to lure some out of the village and kidnap them then.”

“Security will be even tighter when the students are around,” Vilmar pointed out.

“That is true, but we’re not going after children anyway,” Ejnar said. “We could go to Knockturn Alley.” He had been there before, during his first trip to Britain. No one cared if a few residents there went missing.

“Share our gift with whores and thieves?” Nenne scoffed.

“Not everyone’s been born into a rich family, Nenne.” Ejnar growled at him until the other wizard looked away.

“Now, we also can capture enemies during our next battle.”

Afi snorted, and Ejnar glared at him. Berserkers were notorious for not taking prisoners in the heat of battle, but they were not unable to control themselves. Not completely at least.

Flapping noises drew his attention, and when he looked up, he saw three owls fly towards his war band. Post owls? That was not a good sign.

Nenne was one to receive a letter, and his outraged yell strained the privacy spell keeping them hidden: “They broke the Alliance! Treachery!” He growled and drew his wand, aiming at Vilmar.

That werewolf stared at him. “Are you breaking your oath to the warband?”

“Your pack broke oath with my village!” Nenne shouted while Ove and Frans stepped up behind him, backing him up. All three came from the same village, Ejnar knew. Vilmar too was joined by three of his pack.

He stepped between the groups before something happened. “What’s going on here?” he growled with as much menace as he could manage.

“His pack broke their oath and attacked my home!” Nenne said. More werewolves were gathering around them. Oath-breaking was very grave. Not for the first time, Ejnar wished that there were more magical oaths people could swear. No one would break an oath if the penalty was the loss of their life or magic.

Ejnar read the letter. It was a warning. Apparently one of those backwards villages had not adhered to the oath of alliance, and had decided to settle a few disputes with blade and wand. This could destroy his band, unless he acted quickly. “This changes nothing! You gave me your oath, all of you, and you’ll keep it or I’ll break you. We are one warband, bound together with oath and blood, and we’ll stay one! We came here to punish the British and avenge our fellow wolves, and that’s what we’ll do!”

“We cannot fight if we cannot trust them!” Nenne spat.

Enjar turned to the other werewolf. “I said we’re one warband, and we’ll stay one band. I’ll kill whoever attacks his comrade.” He met the other werewolf’s eyes and stared him down until Nenne looked away and grumbled his acceptance of the order.

“Let’s move out. We’ll find a more secure camp for the night!”

On the way to the next forest, Afi walked next to him. “Quick thinking there.”

Ejnar shrugged. “I don’t know what the village idiots did, but I won’t let some backwards pack wreck this warband.”

Afi nodded. “I just pray to Odin you’ll succeed.”

“So do I, Afi. So do I.”

*****

The next day, Ejnar Borge woke up to discover that Nenne, Ove and Frans were gone from their camp. “May Víðarr curse them!” he shouted.

Afi looked grim. In a low voice, he said: “Vilmar and his friends will leave as well as soon as they realise that those three are heading back to fight for their pack.”

Ejnar nodded. “And those from packs in the same area will be tempted to head back as well, to protect their homes.”

“Can they get back, without getting caught by the British?”

He snorted. “That depends on how much attention they paid while we travelled.”

Afi ground his teeth. “We’ll have to move then. If one of them gets captured, they’ll find us easily.”

“Yes.” Ejnar started to rouse those of his warband who had not yet woken up despite the shouting. “Up everyone! We need to move!”

While his wolves packed up, he sighed. He’d lose about half his remaining force, or so he thought. Damn those backwards idiots!

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to do this, but… he pulled out a scrap of parchment from his pouch. Greyback had given this to him, some time ago.

*****

Remus Lupin had been straining to control his temper for days, weeks now. Not just because Wizarding Britain was on a werewolf hunt in all but name, though that played a big part. As did the fact that everyone but a few trusted friends thought he was hunting werewolves during the full moon. He still hadn’t forgiven the Headmaster for this ‘ruse’. If the other British werewolves ever found out about this, he’d be seen as the biggest hypocrite ever. He might be the biggest hypocrite ever, come to think of it.

Here he was, a teacher at the most prestigious school in Europe, respected by staff, students and parents, and it was all a lie. He was just masquerading as a normal wizard. If they knew he was a werewolf, they’d fire him - and hunt him down.

But what really strained his patience was his best friend’s machinations. He didn’t know what exactly Sirius was thinking, if he was even thinking, but for days now, at least two of Sirius’s girlfriends and often Sirius himself as well, had been at Hogwarts. Sirius claimed they were there to offer additional protection for Harry, and the other students, but Remus had his doubts. They were just a bit too clingy.

He frowned and dropped the essay he was grading onto his desk. ‘Clingy’ wasn’t the right word. They were more like… a bit too ubiquitous. His friend meant well, but it irked some.

Though at least he had someone to talk to nearby, and that lovestruck seventh year, Miss Emmerson, who thought he was the ‘most romantic teacher ever’, had been much less pushy since she had been surprised by Chantal while trying to break into his flat.

Just as he picked the essay up again, a knock at his door interrupted him. “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

Lockhart? Remus flicked his wand, and the door opened.

His predecessor as DADA professor, and current assistant professor, stepped inside. “Good evening, Remus.”

“Good evening, Gilderoy. How can I help you?”

“I’m here to drop off the tests from the first year classes.” The author held up a stack of parchments.

Remus smiled, and levitated them to a free space on his desk. “Very good.”

“I’m also here to warn you about the latest ‘interesting animal’ Jenny and Rubeus have created.”

“Ah.” Remus could understand that. Rubeus was a gentle giant, and Jenny a charming young witch, but they had a blind spot the size of Britain when it came to animals. “What did they do?”

“After they managed to weaponise the Stinging Stonefishes by shrinking them and turning them into ammunition for a sort of magical crossbow, they are now trying to create smarter spitting cobras that can spew acid as well as a much stronger poison.”

Remus winced, and his colleague nodded. “The debacle with the spitting ‘saltwater crocobras’ hasn’t stopped them then. Do they think a smarter spitting cobra will be a better match, and prevent the next hybrid from choking on rocks it mistakes for food? Or attacking everything that moves?”

“Exactly. I recommend you avoid Rubeus’s workshop for a while. They are still trying to tame the little monsters.”

“Thank you for the warning. I will focus on dealing with poisonous creatures for the next week then,” Remus said.

“That would be advisable,” Lockhart said.

“If I may ask for a bit of advice…”

“Of course!” Lockhart flashed his famous smile.

“How do you deal with lovestruck students?” Remus asked. Lockhart had been a famous author when he started teaching for a year at Hogwarts, and he certainly had to have dealt with love-struck witches both at school and abroad. And after his return to Hogwarts.

“I check my food and drink for potions, I maintain my distance whenever possible, and I hope they’ll find a wizard closer to their age to pursue.”

“Sound advice.” Remus had to admit that.

“You haven’t had to deal with that before?” Lockhart sounded incredulous.

Remus shook his head. “My popularity rose following recent unfortunate events. I cannot understand how this was possible.”

His fellow teacher shrugged. “You might have missed the signs before. Many witches develop crushes on teachers. The lure of the forbidden love, together with the appeal of a mature man instead of a boy, often proves very strong.”

”I see. I would have thought the Year of Discovery would help with that.”

Lockhart nodded. “It helps. Things should calm down soon. I would not spend any length of time alone in a room with a witch though. Some of them are very cunning.”

That was a disturbing possibility. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“My pleasure. Though you’ll understand that I prefer the students lusting after you rather than after me.”

Remus narrowed his eyes, but the other wizard was already leaving his office. The werewolf spent quite some time wondering whether it had been a hint that his sudden popularity hadn’t been entirely a coincidence.

He might have to revisit his notes from his time at school, to remind Lockhart just who he might be meddling with.

*****

Ron Weasley couldn’t think of a better moment to talk about them than while they were relaxing after sex. It had been a ‘wild ride’, as his elder brothers would have called it. Some of the bruises he felt had been from the duel, some from the sex.

The moment was there, but he wasn’t certain what to say. That had never prevented him from talking though.

“So… “

Parkinson raised her head up from his chest and looked at him. “Hm?”

“Dueling you is fun. You’re one of the few who presents a challenge and who takes this seriously.” Compliments never hurt.

“Thank you.” She smirked.

“And I think it’s rather clear that having sex is very enjoyable for both of us. With each other I mean.”

“Mh.” Her smirk turned into a smile.

“So… I wonder if there are more things that would be fun, together.” There. He said it.

She wasn’t smiling anymore. She didn’t look angry though. More like… surprised.

“You mean… like dating?”

“Yes.” He almost turned it into a question. But he was a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin.

She licked her lips. “Won’t that lead to trouble with your friends?”

“They already think we are dating,” he admitted. When she looked alarmed, he quickly added: “They’re not watching us.”

“How do they know about… us then?” Her eyes narrowed; she was suspecting something, he realised.

“They sort of followed me to the room.” On the map, not in person. But the principle was the same.

“Oh.” She was rather cute when she looked surprised.

“We didn’t look like we had only dueled when we left.” He winced.

Parkinson blushed.

“So… Call me Ron?”

“Call me Pansy.”

He took that to mean that they’d be dating ‘officially’ from now on, and kissed her.

They definitely didn’t look like they had just been duelling when they left - together - the room this time.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore was sick of Scandinavia. Too many werewolves, too many backwards villages, too much violence. He couldn’t leave yet though, not before he had dealt with the Dark Lord’s recruiter.

The information he had taken from that young werewolf at the village had led him to this cottage at the mouth of a fjord. It wasn’t an ideal spot to recruit people, but it was easy to ship the recruits off from here.

Which was why he’d put a stop to this.

Usually he’d study his target, find the weak spots, then strike. Not today though. There were only a few days left until the next full moon, but the werewolves would be more aggressive already. And he didn’t have the time to deal with the wards, or get a Curse-Breaker from somewhere.

He had Polyjuice though, and hair from a recruit. It should be enough to get him through the wards and into the cottage. Afterwards, he’d have to improvise. He was good at that though. A sip from his vial later, ‘Hjalmar’ was on his way to the cottage.

He stopped in front of the wards, and yelled: “Hello!”

He didn’t have to wait long until the door opened, and a scrawny witch stepped out. She looked like a local, so she was probably the most expendable recruit. “I’m here to join,” he said. “I contacted you before, but I had to wait until I grew up before I could leave my home.”

She smiled at him, and he almost felt guilty for deceiving her. Then he reminded himself just what Voldemort had done, and was doing. Anyone who joined that monster knew what they were doing.

“Can I come inside?” Garden or house, either would suffice to get inside the wards.

“Ah, of course.”

He stepped through the wards and smiled. The plan was working.

Right then she started to sniff. “You smell weird…. A mix of scents…”

“Reducto!”

He cut her words off with Blasting Hex to her face that almost split her head in two. One down.

He quickly cast a Shield Charm, then turned his wand on the cottage and blasted the door open. Screams of rage from inside told him he might have wounded someone else. Good. He didn’t enter through the door - they would waiting for that. Instead he blew another hole into the wall, a few yards to the right. That caused more screams. He stepped up to the hole and sent a stream of fire inside, then entered through the door, behind a floating pillar of stone.

“Avada Kedavra!”

His floating shield absorbed the Killing Curse, and his barrage of spells forced the caster, a muscular, feral looking man, a werewolf without doubt, to take cover behind an upturned table after his shield had been shattered.

Aberforth grinned, then banished another werewolf who was just getting up straight into the wall. The man hit it with a sickening crunch, head first, then slid down to the ground, leaving a red stain. Two down. Another, identifiable as a recruit since he was wearing local clothes, tried to pull a piece of the door out of his leg. Aberforth hit him with a series of stunners before he realised he was being targeted. Three down.

A werewolf jumped up from behind the couch, and Aberforth was forced to defend with summoned objects and his shield while he stepped around the room. When the couch was behind the man, he transfigured it into what most biologists would call a Cave Bear.

The animal attacked the Death Eater agent with a roar, and even Voldemort’s agent froze for a second in the face of such fury. Aberforth used that opportunity to shatter the man’s shield, at which point the Bear’s claws and fangs made short work of the werewolf.

Aberforth didn’t see any other threats, and was about to congratulate himself on a job well done when he heard the cries of a baby from the kitchen. He charged inside, wand out, and found himself threatening a little boy holding a baby while hiding inside the pantry.

When the boy bent over the baby, apparently trying to protect it from him with his life, Aberforth felt like a monster himself.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort smiled when he read the note. It looked like Greyback had managed to accomplish something before his demise. Now if only Baker could manage his affairs in Scandinavia as successfully! But Greyback’s replacement had sent but a few werewolves to Voldemort so far, claiming that it took so long to set up a secure way to ferry them to Britain. Cheap excuses, but then again - what could he expect from an animal, even a more civilized one such as Baker?

This Ejnar Borgen though, he had potential. He had heard of the werewolf from Greyback himself. An experienced leader of warbands, but without a pack of his own. A mercenary, at times, even though his loyalty to the werewolves of Scandinavia was supposedly unshakeable. Well, that didn’t matter. Voldemort only needed him for the next offensive, during the full moon. Afterwards, Britain would be broken.

He rubbed his chin while he mused. The warband Borgen spoke of needed a secure base. He could provide that. Assigning more werewolves to his band would increase his effectiveness, though Voldemort doubted that the British beasts would work well with berserkers. Though, his Scandinavian followers would fit in well. Maybe a bit too well, even.

It didn’t matter, he decided. A few more days and the full moon would rise, and Britain would be his.

“Bellatrix!”

“Yes, master?” His lover appeared at his side at once, dropping the book she had been reading. She was eager, he knew, to serve.

“I have a mission for you. Meet with this werewolf, and ascertain if he and his warband can be trusted - for the next few days, at least.”

His Bella nodded, a wide smile on her face. She was even more eager than himself to finally break Britain.

Just a few more days.

*****


	57. Bad Moon Rising

**Chapter 57: Bad Moon Rising**

Aberforth Dumbledore stared at the trembling, crying boy of about three years in front of him. “I’m not going to hurt you, boy.”

The child cringed, and didn’t seem reassured. Yellow eyes, Aberforth noted. Werewolf.

The wizard sighed. “Look, I don’t hurt children.” Not even werewolves, he added to himself. When the boy didn’t react at all, he asked: “Do you understand me?”

The child whimpered. “Mamma.”

There had only been one woman in the cottage. The werewolf whom Aberforth had killed outside. He cursed under his breath. “Where’s your father?” he asked, in his less than perfect Norwegian.

The boy slowly looked at him, then pointed at the door to the living room.

“Do you have any other family?”

The child stared at him. He didn’t seem to understand the question.

“Do you have a pack?”

The boy shook his head and cried again. Aberforth took a deep breath. He couldn’t stay much longer. The Scandinavians wouldn’t take well to him killing a couple of werewolves on their soil. Especially not since he had attacked them. And if he was caught in his polyjuiced form the ruse that had set those villages against each other would be revealed. He had to leave.

Yet he couldn’t leave the children here, next to the bodies of their parents. Or by themselves. He could dump them in Oslo, he thought. Someone would take care of them. Probably. They liked werewolves in this country, after all. They wanted more werewolves, even. For their feuds and raids.

He could leave them there. Should leave them there, to live with their own kind. To be raised in a pack.

He gathered the two children up. “Let’s go.”

*****

Ejnar Borge sniffed the air. This close to the full moon, his senses were far sharper. Not even close to what he could smell when he transformed, of course, but given the direction of the wind, he should have smelled anyone hiding near the witch waiting for him and his warband in the clearing.

Bellatrix Lestrange. The Dark Lord’s right wand, and his mistress, if the rumours were true. A witch whose skill in the Dark Arts rivalled that of the Dark Lord. A witch who had spent over a decade in Azkaban, surrounded by demons whose mere presence drove lesser wizards mad and suicidal.

Ejnar was no coward, but he couldn’t help but feel the hairs on his neck stand up when he walked towards the wild-haired woman. Up close he noticed that she was looking far younger than she should, especially after the years in prison. Very attractive. And very dangerous. And, he added to himself, after meeting the witch’s eyes, very mad.

She nodded at him. “Ejnar Borge.”

He returned the nod, curtly. To show weakness to others was an invitation to be attacked. “Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“You have contacted the Dark Lord with an offer of alliance. He sent me, to ensure this offer is genuine.” She smiled, flashing perfect teeth in the dim moonlight.

“I’m no oathbreaker,” he spat, reminding himself that outsiders, foreigners didn’t understand the Norse. To break an Oath was to offend the gods, which would mean the gates to Valhalla would be closed for you.

The dark witch snorted. “You might not be. Or you might be. I’m here to find out which is the case.” She slowly raised her wand and aimed it at his head.

He didn’t move. He had expected this.

“Legilimens.”

*****

Albus Dumbledore looked up when the fireplace flared in his office. Who would...

“Albus. I’m coming through.” His brother’s voice answered his unspoken question. He had expected Aberforth to return sooner; his mission’s success had already helped in curbing Scandinavia’s appetite for foreign adventures.

He pointed his wand at the fireplace and unlocked the Floo connection. An instant later, his brother stepped through, carrying a bundle and … a child? No, two children. The Headmaster was baffled for the first time since… he couldn’t remember, actually.

“Aberforth?” he asked, looking at the children.

“They are Mats and Letta. They’re the kids of a pair of werewolves I had to kill on your orders,” his brother said, casting a Cushioning Charm and setting the baby and the boy down. The boy stared at him, and grabbed the baby. Aberforth helped the child adjust, casting a few spells to ensure the boy wouldn’t drop the baby.

“Ah,” Albus said. “Voldemort’s agents?”

“Helpers recruited in Scandinavia. They don’t understand English.”

“And you brought them to Britain.” To him, actually. Albus had an inkling of the reason, but didn’t want to confirm it yet.

“They’ve no family left as far as I know.”

“The Scandinavians are known to take in orphans. Even or rather especially werewolves.” The Headmaster didn’t know if the children were werewolves - he hoped the baby wasn’t - but it was more prudent to assume they were, instead of risking a tragic accident.

“They’re also known to feud far more than any other country, and raise their children for war,” Aberforth answered. “You know, and I just saw myself, how eager they are to fight.”

“You took them with you so they would not be used as warriors?” It was a very touching revelation that his gruff brother still cared that much about werewolves. That he was planning to leave the children with Albus was not quite as touching.

Aberforth shrugged. “It’s better than having to kill them in twenty years.”

“They are a bit young for Hogwarts.”

“Yes.” Aberforth stared at him.

Albus met his eyes, then sighed. “You want me to take care of them, to punish me for sending you on this mission.”

His brother snorted. “No. I want you to take care of them because I killed their parents.” He shrugged. “That you feel you’re getting punished says more about you than me.”

Albus refrained from rolling his eyes. He couldn’t fault him for not wanting to raise children he had made orphans. There were a lot of cautionary tales about such situations, not all of them fictional. For many, blood was more important than deeds. But he also knew his brother did not mind, not at all, the quandary he was putting Albus in. To find a good home for two werewolf children, in Britain these days… There were not many Albus knew who’d even consider this, and fewer who’d trust him. Voldemort had been very successful in widening the rift between werewolves and wizards. If only…

Albus smiled. That would be perfect. “I see. Do not worry. I already have a place for them in mind. They will be safe, be assured.”

Aberforth stared at him, probably wary of Albus’s acceptance, but his brother was too proud to voice his suspicions. With a brief nod, he walked over to the fireplace.

“Hog’s Head!”

Albus sighed once his brother had disappeared. Aberforth was so full of resentment, against Albus, and against himself. The Headmaster couldn’t dwell on him though. He had two children to take care of.

He raised his wand, and sent a Patronus Messenger away.

*****

“You wanted to see me, Headmaster?” Remus Lupin asked, entering Dumbledore’s office. To be summoned by a Patronus meant something important, something urgent had happened. That meant Harry, or Sirius. Or, he amended, seeing a baby and a boy sitting on a couch to the left of the Headmaster’s desk, maybe something else.

“Yes, Remus. Thank you for coming so promptly. Please have a seat.”

The werewolf sat down, but kept glancing at the children.

“Mats and Letta.” Dumbledore gestured towards the children. “This is Remus.”

“Hello.” Remus smiled at the baby, then at the boy, Mats.

The child narrowed his eyes, frowning. “Hej.” The boy’s greeting sounded almost like a growl.

Remus’s nostrils widened. He turned to the Headmaster again. “Are they…?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Their parents were killed recently.”

“The Dark Lord? Or British bigots?”

If the old wizard took offense to Remus’s bitter words, then he didn’t show it. He shook his head instead. “They do not speak English. Their parents worked for the Dark Lord, and were killed in his service, in Scandinavia.”

Remus didn’t ask by whom. If the Headmaster was involved, then odds were it was one of his agents. “Do you need a translator?” Remus had once considered emigrating to Scandinavia, and had learned the language, before he had found out what life there really was for werewolves. And for wizards.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Remus blinked. What was Dumbledore talking about… his eyes widened. “You want me to take care of them?”

“I think you are well-suited to the task. You speak the language, you are a good wizard, and you have no prejudice towards their condition. A combination that’s, sadly, exceedingly rare in Britain.” Dumbledore spread his hands. “They have no other family, or so I have been told, and you know what would await them in Scandinavia.”

“I’m a teacher, and single. I have neither the time, nor the skills to take care of little children,” Remus said. This was crazy. He, caring for children? Little children? He couldn’t even care for himself!

“You are a good man, you are very skilled with children - granted, older children than those two - and the Hogwarts elves would, of course, support you.” Dumbledore smiled.

“I could get killed each day we face the Dark Lord’s forces, leaving them orphaned once more, Headmaster!”

The old wizard smiled. “I do not think anyone would begrudge you if you were to stop putting your life on the line if it was to care for two children. Sirius would certainly understand you.”

Remus fought the urge to growl at the manipulative man. The full moon was close, and the wolf was growing stronger. “That’s what you want, right? You fear I’d lose control.”

The Headmaster didn’t deny it. “I think you can help them, and they can help you, Remus. Before it is too late for you.”

“Did Sirius put you up for this? He’s been riding me about finding a witch to settle down with ever since he proposed to Valérie!” Remus was about to stand up and yell, but controlled himself when he saw Mats bend over Letta, seemingly afraid.

Dumbledore had to have seen this, but didn’t react. “I did not need him to tell me that you are greatly - understandably, but greatly - troubled. I did not anticipate the effects of my ruse on you, after the recent tragedies.”

“No, you did not! And yet you’re doing the same again, trying to …”

“... give you the opportunity to do something against the prejudice sweeping the country? Use your reputation as a hunter, which I admit that I am responsible for, to fight bigotry?” Dumbledore asked in a mild tone.

Remus ground his teeth. He wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of agreeing.

“Can you honestly tell me that you’d not have taken the children with you, had you discovered them in a cottage in Britain on a mission for the Order, next to their dead kin?”

The teacher closed his eyes. “No, I can’t.”

“You are not the kind of man who would let his pride and understandable anger prevent you from doing the right thing. Not when the fate of children is at stake.” Dumbledore folded his hands and looked steadily at him.

“What about the other werewolf orphans? These children are not the only ones who have lost their parents. Do we ignore their plight, since saving them won’t save me?”

“Of course not. But it will be much easier to find good homes for other orphans if there is the example of a famous werewolf hunter overcoming his hatred and taking care of two orphaned werewolves.” Dumbledore sighed. “As always, wizards are led by example far more than by anything else.”

“You have an answer for everything I say, haven’t you?”

“Not for everything. Whether or not you will take care of those two children is something only you can answer.”

Remus growled, digging his fingers into the armrests of his seat. Mats cringed again, but the old wizard simply smiled, gently, and waited.

Until Remus, as he already knew he would, would agree.

Sometimes he really hated the Headmaster.

*****

Hermione Granger had to make an effort not to frown when she handed over her latest work on the ritual formula to the Headmaster. Not that she was unhappy with her work. She had optimised her calculations once more, if not by much, and was quite certain that it would stand up to the old wizard’s check.

“Thank you, Miss Granger.”

She nodded, and sat down, taking her notebook out, but didn’t start working. She didn’t want to work on creating a marginally more efficient ritual. She wanted to capture a Dementor and start the ritual.

Dumbledore must have noticed, since he said: “I’ve put out the word. Trust me, as soon as there is even but a hint of a Dementor sighting, I will be informed, and we will be able to take action.”

Hermione nodded. “I know, sir.”

She must not have sounded as if she was convinced, since he added: “He will use the Dementors, Miss Granger. He will not be able to win without them.”

“I still worry,” she said, biting her lower lip.

“That is only natural. But we cannot lose patience - or hope.”

“Just when I wish the Death Eaters would be more active, they stop,” she grumbled.

Dumbledore chuckled, then returned his attention to her formulas while she started thinking of new spells. Anything to take her mind off the worry that they would be too late.

*****

“Remus will be a bit late today. He has to put his kids to bed first,” Sirius announced, entering the training room where Harry Potter and his friends were waiting.

“Remus has kids?” Harry stared at his godfather. He must have misunderstood.

Sirius nodded, grinning. “Yes. Two. A six month old daughter, and a three year old boy.” He shook his head. “That was a surprise, let me tell you. I’m his best friend, and I didn’t know anything about them until he told me today.”

“Why didn’t he tell us?” Ron asked. “Did he hide them for their own safety? And who’s the mother?”

“Did the mother get killed in the war, and now he has to take care of them?” Luna asked. She grabbed her notepad. “That needs an article!”

“Well, it’s a really tragic story. Remus doesn’t want to talk about it, it hurts him too much, you know, but I can tell you everything,” Sirius said, conspiratorially. “It all started when…”

“... when I was called to the Headmaster’s office yesterday,” Remus interrupted Harry’s godfather. “As you knew perfectly well.”

“I was just about to tell them that,” Sirius protested.

“Of course you were,” Remus answered, rolling his eyes.

“So, what is the story then?” Hermione asked. When Remus stared at her, she pushed her chin forward. “It’s perfectly normal and legitimate to want to know why you’re suddenly the father of two children.”

Luna nodded. “Indeed. If that is contagious, then the world needs to know!” The blonde ignored everyone’s stares, just as everyone ignored Sirius’s laughter.

Remus sighed. “The two children are war orphans. The Headmaster asked me to take care of them, since I speak their language.”

“They’re from Scandinavia then, right?” Hermione said. When Remus confirmed that, she nodded, apparently satisfied. Harry thought this was odd - usually the muggleborn witch would ask for more information.

“Oh, are they werewolves?” Luna asked.

Remus nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh… that has to get into The Quibbler! Remus Lupin adopts werewolf orphans!”

“Luna…” Hermione started to say while Harry stared at their blonde friend.

“I’ll need to see the article before it gets printed, Luna,” Remus said firmly, surprising everyone.

“You want Britain to know that the children are werewolves?” Harry asked, surprised.

Remus nodded. “It should help oppose the hysteria against werewolves currently gripping the country.”

“Of course! Adopting werewolves might become fashionable even! I’ll have to ask daddy if we can adopt one too!” Luna beamed at Remus.

“Err…” Harry didn’t know if Luna was serious, or what he could say to dissuade her from going through with her plan.

“That’s very kind of you Luna,” Remus said, smiling at the quirky blonde. “Not many will even consider adopting werewolves.”

Harry felt like a bludger had hit him in the stomach. He had thought he was open-minded, but he had just been proven wrong. And he didn’t know what was worse - that he had wanted to stop Luna’s family from adopting a werewolf child, or stop them from adopting anyone. They might be eccentric, but they were more caring than most people he knew. A glance told him that the rest of his friends, but for Aicha, were sharing his thoughts and shame, judging by their expressions.

It didn’t really make him feel better. But it made him want to become a better person.

*****

Ron Weasley was in hell. Or close to. He was surrounded by Slytherins. The best friends of his new girlfriend, too, even though he was not quite certain if Greengrass was included in this description - Pansy had been a bit vague. He hoped so, since Greengrass was the friendliest among the bunch. Maybe a bit too enthusiastic, even though she reminded him of Lavender.

“You’re going out together? I knew it! When did you start? And how?” The blonde Slytherin’s squeal hit a pitch that would have shattered glass, Ron thought.

“A few days ago,” Pansy said, sounding slightly annoyed.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Greengrass beamed at them both.

“You told them?” Davis asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, just her.” Greengrass giggled.

“You didn’t tell me,“ Pansy said, sounding even more annoyed.

“Tell her what?” Ron asked.

“To make a move on you, or I’d make one!” The witch chirped.

“You didn’t say that. You simply asked if you could sleep with him,” Pansy growled.

“And you glared at me, far worse than you’re glaring right now!” The other witch said, still smiling. “See?”

Davis giggled, and even Goyle, who had been silent so far, grunted in what Ron thought was amusement. The Gryffindor chuckled himself, and patted Pansy’s hand until she huffed and softened her glare. The Slytherins weren’t as bad as he had thought. Not too different from his own circle of friends, to be honest. Sort of.

Greengrass leaned forward with an eager expression. “So… what have you done already? How’s the sex?”

“We’re not telling you about our sex life, Daphne!” Pansy said. She squeezed Ron’s hand hard enough so he understood the message as well. Not that he would have wanted to talk about that with the Slytherins.

“If you hurt her, we hurt you.” Goyle said suddenly, glaring at Ron, before falling silent again.

“Ah…” Ron blinked, then turned towards Pansy. “Shouldn’t you be telling him that you can handle yourself just fine?” At least they did that in the movies he had seen. Ginny had said that each time one of her brothers had had a talk with Neville.

Pansy looked puzzled. “Why should I? If you’re hurting me, I’ll take any help I can get to hurt you back.”

“And then some,” Davis added, while the Slytherins nodded.

Ron had been wrong. Slytherins were different. Unless they were just pulling his leg, he thought when he saw Pansy smirk.

He leaned towards her and whispered: “Remember, we’ll be meeting my friends as well.”

That wiped her smirk right off her face.

*****

Bellatrix Lestrange had been terrifying, but the Dark Lord himself was far worse, Ejnar Borge thought. Tall, handsome, and casually wielding terrifying power. Where Bellatrix had given him the impression that she wanted you to attack her so she could kill you, Voldemort looked at him as if Ejnar was a bug he could squash anytime he wished. And according to everything Ejnar knew, that was the truth. It was hard not to give in to the wolf inside him, and present his throat in submission.

“Welcome, my brave warrior.”

Ejnar had planned to nod, but found himself bowing deeply before he realised what he was doing. “I’m honoured to be here, milord.”

“You’ve come to our shores to punish the British for their crimes against werewolves.”

“Yes, milord.”

“And you desire to ‘share your gift’, as you call it, with more people.”

“Yes, milord.”

“I can grant you both - if you join my ranks. Apart from the cowards and fools, all of Britain’s werewolves serve me.”

Ejnar ground his teeth and gathered all of his courage. “My warband can fight at your side, but we’re loyal wolves of our country. We cannot break our oaths to our home.”

The Dark Lord rubbed his chin, his cold eyes fixated on Ejnar. Bellatrix looked ready to skin him alive; her wand was trembling in her hand, but not yet aimed at him at least. Finally, the man nodded. “That is acceptable.”

A glance shut Bellatrix up before she could voice her opinion, and the Dark Lord sent for a werewolf to lead Ejnar and his warband to their new quarters. Despite the successful negotiations - if one could call that brief exchange a negotiation - Ejnar couldn’t help feeling as if he was making a fatal mistake.

But it was all he could think of to save his warband.

*****

“What movie are we showing tonight?” Harry Potter asked, stepping into the enlarged room where the ‘Movie Night’ was held.

“‘Kiki’s Delivery Service’,” Hermione answered, her expression showing that she had told him that before, but that she thought he had apparently not been listening.

Which was kind of true, he had to admit. Between his recently discovered bigotry and the Dark Lord, he had been distracted. “What’s that?”

“It’s an anime, an animated movie from Japan. Kiki is a broom-riding young witch who starts a delivery service. It’s a beautiful, heart-warming movie, and it should please the purebloods, though it has nothing to do with Magical Japan. It also promotes understanding, and shows muggles and witches living together in harmony,” Hermione explained.

“Wow. Why haven’t we shown this movie before? It sounds like it is tailor-made for Hogwarts’ Movie Nights,” Harry wondered.

Hermione winced slightly. “It’s an anime. I didn’t know about it. Anime also had a bad reputation among my friends.” She looked pensive for a moment. “I do wonder if someone who knew about the Magical World had a hand in making this movie though.”

“Well, is it romantic enough for Ron’s first official date in public?” Harry asked.

Hermione frowned. “It’s certainly not an action movie. It should do.” She shrugged. “Of course, Parkinson might prefer an action movie, if we take their first dates as an example. One with lots of fights.”

Harry thought his girlfriend still hadn’t really accepted Ron’s new girlfriend. He had some reservations himself, but he trusted Ron. Besides, Parkinson had to have had enough opportunities to hurt their friend, if that was her plan. And while Ron wasn’t exactly poor, the Parkinsons were richer, so she wasn’t after his gold. And Malfoy was no longer around to make Ron jealous. And Parkinson had proven both to be brave and to have a soul during the attack on the Hogwarts Express. And he was starting to sound like Hermione in his head.

“I still don’t really believe it, you know,” he said.

“What don’t you believe?” Hermione asked, setting up the projector.

“Ron and Parkinson.” Harry looked over to the door. Ron would arrive soon, ready to screen the arrivals.

“You know the saying: ‘Opposites attract’.”

“I prefer ‘birds of a feather flock together’. It doesn’t make people think I’m dumb,” Harry said.

Hermione chuckled. “Some claim men and women are as different as you can be and still be human.”

“Where does that leave Veela then?” Harry shot back.

She stuck her tongue out at him. Before she could say anything, the door opened and Ron entered. Followed by Parkinson. Both were wearing fancier robes than usual. More revealing ones too.

“Hi there!” Ron said.

A bit too loudly, Harry thought. He looked nervous too. And Hermione was focusing a bit too much on checking the seats.

“Ron! Miss Parkinson!” he said, walking towards the couple.

Ron winced slightly when Harry made eye contact with him. Good. His friend probably had just now realised that Parkinson’s presence meant that Hermione had to act as Harry’s retainer and not as his girlfriend much earlier than usual. Which wouldn’t help with her mood.

Ron mouthed ‘sorry’ while Parkinson bowed. “Good evening, Mister Potter. I’m looking forward to the movie tonight.”

“Hermione has picked it out. It should be very entertaining,” Harry answered. “It’s about a young witch.”

“That sounds interesting,” Parkinson said. “I haven’t seen a movie featuring a young witch yet.” The sea witch from ‘Arielle’ didn’t count, Harry knew.

“I’m getting us some drinks. What would you like?” Ron said, pointing his wand at the boxes in the back.

“A butterbeer please,” the Slytherin said.

“Nothing yet, thank you.” Harry shook his head.

A flick of Ron’s wand later, a butterbeer and a coke flew towards them.

Hermione joined them. “Everything is ready, my Patron.”

“Thank you, my Wand,” Harry answered.

Ron winced once again, and Parkinson’s smile looked a bit forced to Harry. The Slytherin gamely kept the conversation going though. “I have to admit that I expected a bit more work behind the scenes, so to speak, given that the results of your efforts are so remarkable.” She gestured towards the room.

“Oh, Hermione’s pretty much preset the whole room,” Harry said. “A bit of wandwork, and all’s ready. Most of that is stocking up on snacks from the kitchen.” That, and checking the wards and other defences.

“Impressive,” Parkinson said, smiling at Hermione.

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson,” Harry’s retainer answered, with a slight bow.

For a moment, no one said anything. Harry was about to make some more mindless conversation when Ron wrapped an arm around Parkinson and pulled the startled witch to his side.

“Merlin, I’ve had fights that were less tense and awkward than this! We’re supposed to be on a date, not in a diplomatic meeting!” Harry’s best friend said. “So, did you hear about Scandinavia’s excuses? I don’t know why they bother, they are obviously lying!”

“Their excuses would not withstand closer scrutiny, but to force the issue would be undiplomatic. Everyone knows they are lying, but no one will take them to task for it,” Parkinson said. “What do you think, Miss Granger?”

Asking a Patron’s retainer a question directly while in said Patron’s presence was not usually done, but it was not quite a faux pas, even if it was usually limited to topics a retainer was an expert in. Granted, Hermione could pass for an expert - at the very least among her peers - for just about every topic, but Harry thought this was Parkinson trying to build bridges. Or, if viewed as a more Slytherin approach, to curry favour with Hermione. Either way, it was better than some stilted, formal and awkward conversation.

“I think they are abusing customs, but it’s not as if other countries have not done the same. It’s obvious, for example, that our civil war has spilled over to multiple countries, and yet the Ministry can claim that those were the actions of civilians, not the government,” Hermione explained. “The Scandinavians are just following the normal standards in international politics.”

“The difference though is that the attacks on yourself and your Patron in Bulgaria were obviously not committed with the approval, tacit or explicit, of the Ministry, but by its enemies,” Pansy said. “That is not the case with Scandinavia though, where the official stance lines up very closely with those actions taken by ‘individuals outside the control of the government’.”

Harry would never have expected that talking about a horrible war could be preferable to making light conversation. But as the four of them talked about politics, the awkward mood quickly faded. It would still take a long time, he thought, until Parkinson would be considered a close enough friend for Hermione to be able to act naturally around her. Assuming, of course, that Ron and she didn’t break up before that point.

*****

Hermione Granger sighed as the lights dimmed and the movie started. In the first row, Ron and Parkinson were sitting very close to each other. Closer than the seating arrangement she had prepared would allow, to be honest. Someone had to have transfigured their seats. Ron, of course - Parkinson wouldn’t dare to do that, not if she knew what was good for her!

The muggleborn witch sighed again. It wasn’t fair to project her anger on the Slytherin witch. Even if she hadn’t been there, the Movie Night would be far too public for her and Harry to act like the couple they were. At least she could sit next to Harry in the front row. Maybe they could hold hands if she shielded them from view.

While the young witch on the screen flew over the beautiful landscape of the port city she had moved to, she noticed that Ron and Parkinson, sitting on the other side of Harry, were now almost climbing over each other. Ron had certainly adapted to muggle cinema cliches very well. Not that she begrudged him that. Certainly not after his girlfriend had broken up with him so callously. But she was more than a bit jealous that she couldn’t do the same. Ron wasn’t the only one who had certain ideas about things to do on a movie date.

A touch on her hand shook her from her thoughts. Harry leaned over to her and whispered. “Come with me to the back.”

Surprised, but curious, she followed him. Was there a problem with the projector? Harry ignored the projector though, and instead aimed his wand at a spot next to it. With a whispered incantation, he conjured a couch, no a sort of loge. She gasped, and looked at him. Even if they were in the back row, they’d still be in public, and he couldn’t afford the scandal, should anyone see them. If he had the same thing in mind as she had, of course.

He smiled at her and pulled out his invisibility cloak. It would be a tight fit to cover both of them with it, but if she sat in his lap, it would work. And sitting in his lap was kind of the point, wasn’t it?

Hermione didn’t really remember much of the movie afterwards. But it certainly was a perfect movie night, in her opinion.

*****

It had been an enjoyable date, Pansy Parkinson thought as she stood up and stretched while the ending credits played on the screen. The movie had been as sweet as she had been led to believe, and Ron had been… well, she understood why such a date was so popular among muggles. Potter and Granger had left their seats quite early in the movie though, and hadn’t returned. She wondered what was up with that, had they left… no, they were in the back, at the muggle device that showed the movie. Maybe Potter had been boasting about how easy it was to show a movie?

The audience started to file out, chatting excitedly about the movie. Some of the younger witches were transfiguring all sorts of things into the same ribbons for their hair that Kiki had been wearing. Ron made no move towards the door though. Insead he walked to the back of the room with her. Where Potter and his friends were waiting.

“Told you,” he whispered, grinning. Then he addressed the others. “Hello everyone. As you may have noticed, Pansy and I are a couple now.”

“Have been a couple for a while,” Potter commented.

“Oh!” Lovegood cocked her head, and stared at Pansy.

The Slytherin witch stared back, slightly unnerved. Her unease grew when the blonde started to circle around her, with her head still cocked sideways. No one else seemed to react to this though. When the Ravenclaw had completed the circle, Pansy snapped out: “And?”

Luna kept smiling, nodded, and declared to Ron: “I found no obvious faults or Nargle nesting spots. You can keep her!”

Ron chuckled, as did most of the others. Pansy dryly said: “Thank you for your approval.” And to think that she hadn’t been expecting this kind of treatment until she was engaged!

Antar nodded at her in a friendly, if slightly reserved, manner before pulling Lovegood with her to grab some drinks. She reminded Pansy of Tracey, especially in the way she handled the blonde witch. Ron’s sister stared at her, and Pansy had to fight the urge to draw her wand to defend herself against an imminent attack until Longbottom distracted the younger witch, and even so the redhead sent a few looks over her shoulder that made it clear that they’d have words, later.

At least Potter and Granger were as polite as before, and didn’t try to intimidate her. It helped that Granger obviously wanted to interrogate her, but couldn’t, as a mere retainer. Pansy had to refrain from smirking at the muggleborn witch while she chatted with the group about the movie.

When Ron was finally walking her back to her dorm, she still sighed with relief. “That was…” she began, searching for a polite word for ‘stressful’.

“It went much better than I thought,” Ron said, beaming.

“Your sister threatened to transfigure my brain into a mongoose if I ‘mistreated’ you.” That had been scarier than it should have been, coming from a 5th year witch.

“Oh, that’s just a hyperbole. She can turn your, ah, boogers into bats that attack you though.”

Pansy felt sick thinking about that. “Is your whole family like that?”

“Oh, no!” he reassured her. “We’re a friendly bunch.”

“I’ve known the twins,” she reminded him.

“Ah, yes. They learned from my oldest brother, Bill.”

“Great.”

“That he is!” Ron said, then chuckled as she glared at him. “Seriously, you don’t have to worry. Unless they think you hurt me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is that payback for meeting my friends?”

“Maybe a little?”

Pansy groaned, then smirked. She’d get revenge in their next duelling session.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort smiled while he surveilled the ranks of werewolves gathered on the empty field between two forests. It was without a doubt the biggest gathering of werewolves Britain had seen in decades, perhaps ever. And all of them were ready to fight for him. Fools.

He checked his watch. Two p.m.. The full moon would rise at a quarter to five p.m.. It was time.

He slowly rose up from the ground, until he was floating two yards above the assembled beasts. It didn’t take long for all of them to fall quiet after the first had witnessed his feat. Many of them looked awed even.

“Comrades!” he said, an Amplifying Charm carrying his words to everyone. “The time has come! The time to take back the country that has driven you out, murdered your families and denied you justice! Soon the full moon will rise, granting you your power! Soon you will run and hunt all over Britain! You will prey on the weak and foolish, as you should!

“The wizards will cower in their homes, hiding. They are afraid of you, and with good reason! They know you rule the night of the full moon. This is your night. Show them your power! Show them you’re the hunters, not the prey! They have taken everything from you, and now you will take everything back!

“Go, and hunt!”

The werewolves howled and screamed when he had finished. It was an inhuman, monstrous cacophony. The beasts were already close to shedding their human disguise, and showing their true nature.

He spread his arms wide. “Go!”

Beneath him, the horde broke up into packs as the wolves started to apparate away. Only Voldemort himself remained. He landed again right when Bella appeared in the clearing.

“Have you accomplished your tasks?”

“Yes, Master!” she answered, eagerly. “Everything is ready!”

That meant the sacrifices were prepared for the ritual. ”Very good, my love. Gather our wands; they will be needed soon.”

The dark witch apparated back to his headquarters. Voldemort himself had another destination to visit before he could rejoin his Bella. He checked that he was wearing the amulet, then concentrated and apparated to a decrepit old manor. The cold was almost strong enough to overcome his robe’s Warming Charms, and the aura of the monsters battered against his Occlumency shields. Lesser wizards would have fled, or died. But he was Lord Voldemort! He stood, unflinchingly, while dozens of the monsters surrounded him, and held out the amulet until one Dementor was facing him.

He sensed the question’s intent, curiosity laced with cruelty and anticipation, and focused his own mind, thinking of Dementors hunting muggles and wizards alike. The Dementor facing him hissed with pleasure, and Voldemort felt another question. Grinning, he imagined a horde of Dementors, dozens of them, if not hundreds.

Around him, the hissing grew louder as more and more of the monsters gathered, excited. They wanted to hunt, he knew. More than anything. Finally, the apparent leader nodded, and the hissing grew into a screeching noise, before the Dementors floated away, spreading out.

The hunt had begun.

*****

“You can’t stay! We’ll transform!”

Remus Lupin smiled at Mats and held up a vial. “Do you know what this is?”

The boy shook his head.

“Wolfsbane.”

The way the child’s eyes widened made it clear that, he knew what that was, but had never seen it. His parents had to have been part of a very rustic settlement. Or a very poor one.

“Drink half the vial, and give half of the remainder to Letta,” Remus said. He watched while the boy did as he had been told. Mats was very careful with the vial, and with his sister. Not unlike Remus had been, according to his mother.

He sighed, and went to check that the door to his office was not just locked, but sealed. The full moon would rise soon, and he could not afford the smallest mistake. Not with two young children depending on him.

He had taken his potion already, so he didn’t have to do anything but keep the children company and wait until he felt the familiar pain overwhelm him. When he could think clearly again, he was looking down at his two cubs. The older one growled at him, then sniffed him.

Remus couldn’t remember any night the wolf inside him had been as content as at the time the two cubs snuggled up to him.

*****

Ejnar Borge raced through the forest on all fours, long limbs carrying him towards the small village at the forest’s edge. His Warband - his pack, if only temporarily - ran behind him, howling with glee. They were free! They were on the hunt! Both for prey to eat and people to share their gift with.

He reached the edge of the forest, and howled louder. In the village in front of him all the lights were on, and he heard screams and yells from inside some buildings. He smelled cows, and sheep, and chickens. And people. No sign of any magic though.

Perfect. His pack could hunt, and feed, and there would be new members come tomorrow. If they survived. He ran towards the closest door, crashing through. A woman screamed and turned around, trying to flee. He was on top of her before she had taken more than three steps, baring his fangs and teeth at her. She shrieked, and for a moment he was expecting her to faint. She didn’t though. Instead she struck at him, not that her blows could harm him. But she was trying and she wasn’t surrendering. She was worthy of the gift. So he turned his head, and bit into her forearm until he could taste blood, then howled again.

*****

He stepped into the circle between the three marble altars, upon which the sacrifices were laid out, held down with chains of enchanted silver. Two men, one woman, all in the prime of their life. Young, but not too young, they had not yet been worn down by too many transformations. The sun had set already, but night had not yet fallen. The moon was rising though, and soon the three monsters would shed their human skin, and sprout fur and claws and fangs. Their lives would grant him the power to crush his enemies.

Three globes floated around him, shimmering with the enchantments he had painstakingly placed on them, the runes inlaid in their surface glowing already. They would hold the power, long enough for him to use it.

Next to him stood his lover, Bellatrix, as beautiful, loyal and lethal as ever. She would die for him, he knew, if he wanted her to. She was his right wand. His Bella. The one who would stand at his side, forever.

While the moon rose over the treetops, and its silvery light started to wander towards the bound sacrifices, he closed his eyes, savouring the moment. In a hundred years, in a thousand years, wizards and witches would remember this day. The day Lord Voldemort conquered Britain.

*****

Hermione Granger held Harry’s hand while he shook in his bed. Blood ran over his face, pouring out of his scar. He was hissing through clenched teeth, trying to say something, but she couldn’t understand him. Couldn’t help him, other than to scourgify the blood away and hold him while he suffered. Tears formed in her eyes while she hugged him. She couldn’t help him, but she’d stay with him.

“Miss Granger? Please come to my office at once.”

She looked up when she heard the voice of the Headmaster, and stared at the glowing phoenix made of light. A Patronus… Dumbledore was calling for her. That meant…

She couldn’t leave Harry alone while he suffered, and yet this was the moment she had been waiting for. The chance to save him. To sever the connection to the Dark Lord and end the danger to him that it represented. And to end the Dark Lord, at the same time.

She hated herself, but there was no other choice. After kissing Harry on the cheek, and caressing his head, she stood up, summoned the bag she had prepared, and made haste to the Headmaster’s office.

Dumbledore was already waiting for her there, with Fawkes on his shoulder.

“Headmaster, Harry is having another vision!” Hermione exclaimed.

“As was to be expected,” the old wizard said, looking grim. “But as cruel as it feels, this is our chance. With the Dark Lord in the middle of a ritual, we have a window of opportunity during which we can act while he is unable to stop us.”

Hermione nodded. She knew what had happened the last time the Dark Lord had made a mistake during his ritual. If he tried to leave in the middle of it, the backlash would be just as bad, or even worse.

“Grab onto Fawkes, Miss Granger. We have received reports of Dementors attacking muggles in Cambridgeshire and East Anglia. Dozens of them.”

Dozens of Dementors? Hunting muggles? Hermione gasped as she grasped the bird’s leg. And again when she was suddenly surrounded by fire, just like during the last task of the Tournament. Before she could scream though, the flames vanished, and she found herself standing on top of a little hill, overlooking a village.

“In addition to Dementors, werewolves are running wild all over Britain. The Obliviators will be stretched beyond their limits, so we have to be discreet,” Dumbledore explained. “I will handle the capture, you will keep the other Dementors away, or at least at bay.”

“Yes, sir,” Hermione said with more confidence than she felt, and together they walked towards the village.

They didn’t have to search; they encountered a Dementor right at the entrance to the village, bent over a man lying on the ground in the middle of the street. It was kissing the muggle!

“Expecto Patronum!”

Hermione sent a glowing otter at the monster, driving it away from its prey and forcing it to flee. Then she glanced at the Headmaster. That hadn’t been the plan.

He smiled reassuringly at her. “While it prevented me from capturing the Dementor, your swift action also saved this man’s soul. We will find another prey, Miss Granger.”

They found two comatose, soulless husks first though. A couple, from the looks of it, a few years older than Hermione herself. She bit her lower lip to not scream with anger and frustration at the sight.

Then they heard a scream. A child! Hermione started to run towards the scream at once, wand out. She turned the corner and saw a little girl, cornered by a Dementor, shaking with fear. The girl could see the monster, she realised - it had to be a witch! Once more she cast a Patronus, but before her otter could charge this monster, the soil rose from the Earth and formed a cage around it. The girl used the opportunity and scrambled on all fours away from the Dementor, and opened the door to the house.

“They cannot open doors or windows!” Hermione yelled to her, hoping she’d hear and understand. The door slammed shut, so hopefully she had.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore had pulled a rolled-up carpet out of his robe. “It is time for us to leave.”

“But… the Dementors are still around.” Hermione protested.

“Time is of the essence, Miss Granger. Besides, most people will be in their homes by now - or already beyond help. But if we fail here, then this tragedy will be repeated again and again.”

The closer she stepped to the transfigured cage, the lower the temperature fell, and the worse Hermione felt. She almost missed two more Dementors converging on them while she was trying to keep from crying and whimpering. Hermione’s otter followed Dumbledore’s phoenix and drove them off.

The Headmaster levitated the cage onto the carpet, then cast a Sticking Charm, before disillusioning both cage and carpet. The Dementor was still visible, but only wizards and witches could see it anyway. “Fawkes will take you back to Hogwarts, Miss Granger. There is no need for you to suffer the Dementor’s close proximity for the hours the flight will take.”

Hermione was about to protest, then nodded. It made sense. But it also offered her an opportunity. “I will be patrolling the village until the Dementors are all driven away then!”

“Miss Granger, we cannot afford to lose you.”

She knew that as well, but she couldn’t leave the villagers to those monsters. “Fawkes will be with me, and can take me back at once, should it be needed.”

Dumbledore looked at her eyes for a moment, then nodded. “I see that to try to dissuade you from this would waste too much time and would be futile. Be very careful, Miss Granger.” With that admonishment, the Headmaster sat down on the invisible carpet and disillusioned himself.

Hermione saw the Dementor, struggling against the invisible bars of its cage, lift off, and disappear over the roofs of the next house. The further it flew, the better she felt. When she couldn’t feel it anymore, she turned to Fawkes.

“Let’s go, Fawkes. We have a village to protect.”

The phoenix trilled, and the two were off.

It took four more Patronuses, and two searches of the entire area without encountering another Dementor until Hermione was satisfied that the village was reasonably safe again. She had gone through her stash of chocolate as well, but she was convinced that she still felt better than if she had left the muggles to their fate.

*****

Albus Dumbledore was feeling every year of his long life when he finally saw Hogwarts appear on the horizon. He remembered every mistake he had made, everyone he had hurt, everything he regretted, and he was shivering, with cold and horror, after hours right next to a Dementor. But he was not done yet. He had to secure the Dementor.

He guided the carpet towards the window to his office, the monster’s presence driving the owls waiting there away, and opened it with a touch of his wand. Almost there. He landed in his office, and grabbed another bar of chocolate from his pocket. He had eaten so much chocolate, Xenophilius would consider it evidence for his Rotfang Conspiracy theory. He checked the spell on the gargoyle guarding the entrance to his office. Several people had tried to reach him. He had expected that. Fortunately, his friends and the Ministry had been told that he was out, fighting Dementors. Rubbing his aching head, he levitated the cage, and started towards the secret door leading to the special room he and Miss Granger used for their project. He had to secure the Dementor before he could do anything else, much less rest.

When the Dementor was safely imprisoned in the vault, its aura blocked by enchanted metal and stone, Albus finally stopped shivering for the first time in hours, and could think clearly again. He was still tired though, and slowly climbed the stairs back up to his office.

He sent a Patronus Messenger to Miss Granger, informing her of his arrival. He was certain that the girl wouldn’t have rested until he had returned. As he had also expected, both Miss Granger and Harry were already waiting in front of his office, under Harry’s Cloak of Invisibility, when he finished his climb. Sitting down behind his desk, he bade them enter and rubbed Fawkes’s head.

“Headmaster! You’re back!” Miss Granger stormed into his office, followed by Harry.

“I’ve prepared the memory for you! He sacrificed three werewolves!” the young Gryffindor said, holding up a vial containing the silvery strand of a memory.

“Thank you, Harry.” He smiled and pocketed the vial. “I fear I am not in a state to investigate the memory right away. Nor will I have time for it.” He summoned a thick envelope bearing the Ministry’s seal from the pile of letters and opened it. “As I expected - there’s an emergency session in the Wizengamot, tomorrow. He checked his watch, and corrected himself. “Today.”

“Sir! Can we do the ritual?” Hermione asked, trembling.

He chuckled. “Miss Granger, I am not in a state to be able to do so. I need more rest than anticipated. I would not want to risk leaving a panicking Wizengamot without counsel and advice either. Fear drives people to decisions they’d never make normally.”

The girl nodded - grudgingly, he thought. But there was no other choice. If he tried the ritual in his current state, he’d end up killing himself and Miss Granger. He looked at the young witch and wizard.

“I’ll give you my word though: Voldemort will not survive this day.”

*****


	58. Onslaught

**Chapter 58: Onslaught**

Albus Dumbledore felt every year of his long life when he sat down on his seat in the Wizengamot. The hours spent in close proximity to the captured Dementor had taken their toll, and he hadn’t slept more than a fitful hour, filled with nightmares. He tried to imagine spending a decade near those monsters, and shuddered. Azkaban would never be guarded by them again.

Around him, the members of the Wizengamot filed in and took their seats. Many were chatting with their allies and friends, and Albus could see most were concerned, or even afraid. The dozens of attacks last night had shaken the general impression that the Ministry was winning the war against Voldemort. And to reassure them would be difficult.

Albus would have sighed if he hadn’t had to keep up appearances and look as confident as ever. He couldn’t tell them that soon, Voldemort would be dead. Merlin knew what the Dark Lord would do if he heard that - and he would. Albus was certain that Tom had at least one spy in the Wizengamot, probably more. And if he was not in attendance, then the Dark Lord would suspect that he was hurt, or working on something more important than this session - and either assumption might drive Tom to launch another attack, despite of how tired the Dark Lord had to be after conducting three rituals in one night.

Arthur was already present, as Head of his Department. The Weasleys had relocated to Grimmauld Place when the news of the attacks had started to spread, and the Burrow had been attacked shortly afterwards, or so Albus had heard. The house was still standing, but there had been some damage done. He would have to ask Arthur if he could help, after this was over.

Amelia entered, looking even more stern than usual. A formidable witch, Albus knew, but she wouldn’t have slept at all during the night. Not with so many attacks all over the island. Pepper-Up would see her through the session, and into the afternoon, but then she’d need to sleep. “Good morning, Amelia,” he said, nodding at her.

She nodded back curtly. “Good morning, Albus.” She was angry that he had not helped, as far as she knew, and the Headmaster felt guilty about using the lie that he was waiting for the Dark Lord to show up before committing himself to a battle - he had known the Dark Lord was busy with his ritual, after all - but he couldn’t have risked Tom finding out about the capture of the Dementor.

Cornelius followed shortly after. The Minister for Magic looked as if he had aged a decade in the last year. The stress was taking its toll on the politician. He wasn’t the greatest Minister for Magic ever to grace those halls, but so far he had held up under the pressure. More than Albus had expected, if he was honest. The Minister was putting up a good front too: cordial, friendly, steadfast. Albus was one of the few who knew it was a front. Fortunately, Cornelius wouldn’t have to bear this cross much longer. A few more hours, and Albus would be able to start the ritual that would end the Dark Lord.

“Good morning, Cornelius.”

“Good morning, Albus. Quite a pickle we find ourselves in, right?”

Albus smiled. “It is not quite as dire as some think. I am convinced that this was the Dark Lord’s last attempt.”

Cornelius raised his eyebrows, but Albus simply kept smiling until the Minister, frowning but heartened, took his place. Saul had sat down without anyone taking notice. Not that many were eager to talk to an Unspeakable anyway - few liked speaking to someone hiding his or her identity. Albus sometimes wondered how he would act if he couldn’t tell them apart.

Augusta was among the last to enter. Longbottom Manor had come under attack again, and she would have spent most of the night coordinating its defences, but she looked as formidable as ever.

Albus looked at the clock on the wall. It was time to start the session. He just hoped it wouldn’t take too long to calm the frightened members of this esteemed body so he could go back to Hogwarts to win this war.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort entered his throne room, Bellatrix at his side. The hall had been expanded to fit all his wands; beasts and men alike. It was an impressive sight, the ranks and ranks of wands raised, even if many of the werewolves looked ragged still, weary from their transformations. Some were wounded, many were tired from hours of fighting. The foolish animals were as eager as the wizards and witches Voldemort had kept mostly in reserve during the night.

He could feel the power contained in the orbs in his pockets, pulsing, fighting against the magic keeping it contained. Lesser men would not have dared to brave such danger, would have been cowed by the prospect of wielding power that could annihilate them should they make a single mistake. Even Dumbledore would shy away from that. Voldemort was without peer though. Magic itself was his to master. And the animals and wands present were the instruments of his will.

“Wizards! Witches! You fought well this night! You struck fear into the hearts of our enemies. As I speak, they have gathered in the Ministry, afraid and shaken, to ask themselves how they can fight us. They think we will strike again, tonight. They are wrong!”

Murmurs passed through the ranks of his followers. They yearned for combat. They had tasted blood and victory, and wanted more. He grinned. “We will strike now!”

He raised his wand. “I will tear down the wards protecting the Ministry itself, and we will storm that rotten place to cleanse it of the mudbloods and blood traitors!”

Some cheered, others, doubting, were taken aback. He had expected this. Had prepared for this. He rose from where he stood, floating, and raised his wand. “While you struck and fought last night, I completed an ancient ritual dating back to primordial times. I now wield the power that sank Atlantis!” He touched one orb, and let just a trickle of the power flow through him. It was enough to fill the hall with his might. The more sensitive among his followers fell to their knees, even, as he struggled to keep the power contained in the orb from rushing out.

When he saw them stare at him with awe, he laughed. “Stand! Stand and follow me! Victory awaits us!”

*****

“I assure you, despite rumours, the attacks last night were, by and large, defeated.”

Albus Dumbledore kept a stern expression on his face while Amelia was answering Amos Diggory, who had just asked the same question as the Wizengamot member before him.

“The followers of the Dark Lord may have struck at dozens of houses and manors, but they didn’t manage to breach the wards in any but a handful places. The casualties they took doing this ensure that a repeat of such an attack will mean the end of the enemy as a credible force.”

“What about our casualties?” Maximilian Selwyn shouted. “How many good wizards did we lose?”

“Our own casualties were minimal, both among civilians and Ministry forces.”

Albus saw that Amelia was glaring at Maximilian through her monocle. She knew as well as he did that Maximilian had been under suspicion in the last war, though nothing had ever been proven. He had not made any waves in this war though, so to speak up like this, now, meant that he either was spooked by the attacks, or someone had told him to. What if last night’s attacks had not just been distractions to ensure Tom would not be disturbed during his ritual, but if there had been another purpose behind this? Had he been too focused on finally capturing a Dementor that he had missed something crucial?

“... the DMLE has the situation in hand. As we speak, our Aurors are at work, investigating the sites of the attacks, tracking down the surviving enemy forces, while Hit-Wizards are ready …”

Amelia stopped talking when the entire room, no the entire building shook. “Earthquake?” one shouted from the back rows, among yells of fear and surprise. It wasn’t an earthquake though, Albus knew that at once. He looked at Amelia and Saul, and their reaction confirmed his worst fear. The wards of the buildings had just been destroyed. And Albus knew only one wizard who could achieve such a feat.

He stood up and cast an an Amplifying Charm. “Evacuate the building at once! We are under attack!”

A few among the Wizengamot members apparated out at once. The quick and the afraid - or the smart ones, Albus thought. He didn’t mind their flight - they’d do more harm than good if they stayed.

Arthur jumped up. “Percy!” The man started to run towards the door, together with most of the Aurors present, and the Department Heads. Amelia was shouting orders.

Saul had disappeared already - he would be down in the Department of Mysteries, ensuring that the loss of the wards had not caused something else, something worse, to break free from the vaults there.

Cornelius was slower to rise. He was afraid, Albus could see it, but the wizard was still putting up a brave front. He knew that as the Minister, he couldn’t run, just as he knew he had no place in a battle.

“I assume you will handle the evacuation of the civilians on your floor, Cornelius?” Albus said.

The Minister nodded. “Yes. We can coordinate the defence from my office.”

Both knew it was a fiction, but the calm exchange helped prevent the panic from spreading. Or would have, if people had not discovered that Apparition had been blocked right then.

Amelia turned to them from the door. “The enemy has overrun the atrium. I’m rallying the Hit-Wizards for a counter-attack.”

She looked at Albus, and he nodded. “I will join you, of course.” Everyone knew that he was the only one able to face Voldemort. He only hoped that this was still true - but feared it was no longer the case. Not even Albus would have been able to destroy the wards of the Ministry that quickly. The prudent course of action would be to retreat from the building - there were still ways out; the Ministry had stood for centuries, and had gone through several rebuilds. But Albus couldn’t let those brave people face Tom by themselves. If Tom had spent whatever he had gained from the ritual last night to destroy the wards, and this was just his desperate attempt to behead the Ministry, they stood a good chance to defeat him.

And if not… he had still a way out, even if he would hate himself for taking it. No matter what, no matter the cost, Tom would die today.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort flicked his wand, and the fountain in the atrium turned into a giant chimaera, shredding the Hit-Wizards who had taken cover behind it with claws and teeth and horns. A couple of spells impacted his Shield Charm from the second floor, where a handful of Aurors had been cut off from retreat. He turned the pillar behind them into a cloud of acid. Two of them died, one caught by surprise, the other mistaking the acid for poison and casting a Bubble-Head Charm instead of fleeing. The rest scattered, and were overrun by werewolves.

The first wave, mostly wolves, had apparated into the Ministry with him. They were expendable after all. While they fought the guards and Hit-Wizards in the Ministry, the Second Wave had apparated in, before he had sealed the building.

To his left, one red-robed Auror and three Hit-Wizards were trying to keep a pack at bay while behind them, half a dozen clerks or whatever were trying to activate the Floo Network connection. He glanced at Bellatrix, who had stayed at his side, and nodded towards the group. His love smiled wildly, and rushed forward, laughing as she slaughtered the defenders, their robes’ protective enchantments already weakened from combat, with dark curses he had taught her. One Hit-Wizard was staring in horror at the lungs he had just coughed out, another was slowly being skinned alive while the Auror clutched her belly as something tore her up from the inside. Behind them, the sheep the three fools had tried in vain to protect were torn to pieces by the pack’s blades.

He glanced around. The transfigured chimaera had cleared one half of the atrium by itself, bits of bodies still dangling from the horns of one head. The wolves had cleared the rest, and his wands were securing the entire floor. A hand-picked group was guarding the lifts. It was time to start the cleansing of the rest of the floors. Just as he was about to give the command to charge, the ground under the chimaera opened up, forming into spears of stone that stabbed into its body. The transfigured monster immediately exploded, showering the atrium with shards of stone.

Among the cries of his wands and wolves struck by the projectiles, Voldemort heard a hated voice. “You have made some progress in Transfiguration, though you are far from having mastered it, Tom.”

Dumbledore had arrived.

*****

Albus Dumbledore felt less confident than he sounded. That had been an impressive transfiguration, even though he could have done it better. The die had been cast though. Shielded by a wall of stone, he and Amelia’s Hit-Wizards ascended to the atrium on conjured ramps. As soon as he reached the top, he turned more of the marble floor into a wall, dividing the room into two parts and cutting off the lifts from the Dark Lord’s position. Immediately, teams of Hit-Wizards charged the werewolves and Death Eaters there, as planned. With Apparition and Portkeys blocked, and the Floo connections broken, that was the most accessible way to evacuate the remaining civilians.

The old wizard just hoped he could hold Tom at bay long enough to accomplish it. Together with those among the Ministry’s forces who had volunteered, he moved to face the Dark Lord. With his wand, he raised another wall behind them, then turned the wall in front into floating slabs of marble, to absorb Killing Curses and other Unforgivables

The green spells shattering half of the slabs were not the main threat though, that was the pitch-black liquid flowing towards them. Devil’s Tar, poisonous and highly-flammable, it clung to anything living it touched. Tom was proving to be more original and innovative than he had expected - a far cry from his experiences in the last war.

But Albus had studied with Flamel himself - the premiere Alchemist of the world. While the Aurors and Hit-Wizards with him engaged the Death Eaters trying to flank them, he flicked his wand and transfigured the floor into a neutralising agent, then lifted it so the whole sizzling mass flowed back towards Tom and his followers.

He thought he heard him curse, but the screams of a dark wizard who had slipped and fallen into the mass, soon turning into gargling noises while the weaker poison did its work more slowly, drowned it out. Albus didn’t let up though, and had stone arms sprouting up among the ranks of Voldemort’s followers, grabbing them and holding them in place so they would not escape the Devil’s Tar. Predictably, the desperate wizards and witches shattered the stone appendages - releasing the phosphorous he had filled them with. The material ignited upon contact with the air, burning everything nearby. One flailing witch, her robe’s fire protections overloaded, fell into the tar.

Albus canceled the transfiguration, and with the agent gone, the remaining mass of tar lit up like a nesting dragon faced with a group of poachers. An entire section of the atrium turned into an inferno. Most of those caught in it had no time to scream, but one unlucky wizard’s fire protection was strong enough to keep him alive for longer.

Tom had moved to the side though, neatly escaping the area, and was rising into the air, sending curses down to the cut-off area where the first civilians were trying to escape. Their screams drove Albus on, and he focused on the Dark Lord while the remaining Hit-Wizards started to push the werewolves and dark wizards back.

He pointed his wand at Tom and sent half a dozen ice lances at him, followed by corkscrewing sparks of fire. All splashed harmlessly against the man’s Shield Charm. Laughing, his enemy retaliated - two Killing Curses were stopped by blocks of stone while whirling blades dripping with poison shattered themselves against Albus’s shield.

The Headmaster was already moving to the side when the ground beneath him vanished, and didn’t have to do more than conjure a patch of stone to regain his footing. He sent a few Piercing Curses at Tom, as a distraction, then blew up the ground below the floating wizard, transfiguring the debris thrown up into a man-sized fist that struck the Dark Lord’s shield with enough force to shatter it.

Before Albus could take advantage of that, however, the Shield Charm was recast. The expected onslaught of dark curses had not happened yet though. So far, Tom had acted rather restrained, he thought. Or, maybe, weakened. Had the ritual taken that much out of him? Had he overextended himself?

Screams from the advancing Ministry forces disproved that theory. Albus glanced to the side and saw that the men and women were under attack from animated bodies and body parts. One of the grey-robed Hit-Wizards yelled “Inferi!”. Albus knew the man was wrong though - he recognised the spell: Killing Hands, a favourite spell of the late Houngan Hector Williams, who had been fond of animating severed hands, though it worked on every body part, turning them into necromantic constructs. It had a rather glaring weakness though.

“They are not Inferi, use salt!” Albus yelled, right before Tom finally cut loose with curses. He stopped a Killing Curse with a conjured marble block, deflecting a Tongue-Ripper at the same time. His Shield Charm fended off another Barbed Cutting Curse, before a Sectumsempra shattered it. Two curses hit him, both stopped by his robe, and another got through, though weakened, causing him to bleed internally. He would have to do something about it in a bit, but for now he could fight on, had to fight on. Albus transfigured the air around him into a thick smoke cloud, and moved towards the Dark Lord, gambling on him not expecting that. He was tiring, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t let up.

He was lucky - the ground behind him erupted from multiple blasting curses, and judging by the screams of ‘Tentacles!’ he heard, another of Williams’s favourites was among Tom’s arsenal. That would confirm his suspicion that the houngan had fallen to the Dark Lord, decades ago.

He left the smoke cloud and transfigured part of the floor under his floating enemy into a pike that shot directly upwards, shattering the wizard’s shield right at the time his Piercing and Cutting Curses hit. Tom tried to dodge, but didn’t quite manage it, and his robe couldn’t stop that many spells either, leaving him with a deep gash in his leg. He recast a Shield Charm, but more spells flew at him, forcing him to dodge again and again as he wove through the air.

Albus glanced behind him and saw that Amelia had climbed the walls he had erected with her part of the forces, sending waves of spells at Tom. With them were several Wizengamot members, among them Augusta, as well as Ministry employees. At the same time, the surviving Hit-Wizards and Aurors who had been with Albus were advancing, and the Dark Lord’s forces were almost driven out of the atrium. They could win this, Albus thought.

Then the Dark Lord started to laugh, and pulled out a glowing orb from his pocket that Albus, to his horror, recognised. He started to raise the thickest wall he could think of in front of Amelia and the others, despite knowing it would be too late, and, hating himself, cried out: ‘Fawkes!’.

The entire Atrium was filled with light, followed by a thunderclap. Blind and deaf, Albus felt his shield shatter, felt his robes’ enchantments flare up, felt claws dig into his shoulder as fire engulfed him.

*****

  
“We should be joining the Hit-Wizards and Aurors, Dad! They’ll need every wand.”

Arthur Weasley shook his head at his son as he made his way towards his office, past panicking colleagues running towards the lift and stairs. “We would just be two more wands, hardly a significant addition to the Ministry’s forces. I’ve something far more promising in mind to help them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Son, we’ve been at war for some time. I’m not a Hit-Wizard, nor an Auror, much less a potioneer. But I do have talents of my own, which could come in very handy.”

“You’ve enchanted something? Another flying car?”

Arthur coughed. That had been a scandal he was not happy to be reminded of. “Not exactly. I was talking about a part of my work.”

He pointed ahead, at the locked room labeled ‘Muggle Artifacts’. “I’ve been collecting a few items I think will be useful in this battle.”

At least if he used them to save the Ministry the repercussions shouldn’t be too bad. Or so he hoped. Then the entire building shook once more, and he cursed.

“Hurry!” he said as he opened the door. He feared that he was already too late.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort was laughing when the forces he had unleashed struck throughout the atrium, reducing his enemies to cinders in a fraction of a second. Bones, Longbottom, and Diggory, and another half dozen blood-traitors, gone, as well as every Hit-Wizard and Auror present. Dumbledore though… Voldemort was not certain he was dead. That flash, right before the wave struck him… He would be hurt though, and weakened.

For now, Voldemort had to finish this battle. From the sides, his followers - those who had not been too slow, or too bloodthirsty to obey his command to fall back and move into the other parts of the Ministry - appeared, led by Bellatrix. With a flick of his wand he stilled the bleeding in his leg and closed the wound, then addressed his forces: “Our enemies are dead or fled! The day is ours!”

Roars and cheers answered him. He ordered the wolves to scour the building for hidden enemies, then landed next to Bellatrix. “What about the Department of Mysteries?” He asked while the beasts under his command surged forward, spreading through the Ministry.

“Sealed up, Master. The entrance is trapped, we lost two wands.” Bellatrix bowed her head. “I was not quick enough, forgive me.”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing to forgive. It was a slim chance from the start. We’ll deal with them later, in our own time.” They couldn’t get away anyway - that floor had no other exit. And that Department was traditionally ‘flexible’. Once he was the uncontested ruler of Britain, they’d come around.

“To the Minister’s office!”

*****

Ejnar Borge was laughing as he led his warband through the corridors of the British Ministry of Magic. Who would have thought even a week ago that his expedition to Britain would lead to this point? Last night had been good, they had struck several times, but today… this was great! The ministry that had butchered his fellow wolves, brought low by the Dark Lord himself! Its servants hiding, cowering, pleading - and dying, by spell or blade! He loved this!

At his side, Afi was chanting an old war epic. The remaining members of his band - half a dozen, they had taken some losses, who were now waiting in Valhalla - searched the office they had entered. A shriek told him they had found another victim. He glanced over. Yngvard was pulling a young witch out from the cupboard she had been hiding in. The wolf was bleeding from a fresh cut in his cheek, and glancing back at Ejnar. The leader of the warband nodded. The witch was not old enough to be important, and not brave enough to receive their gift. Yngvard grinned, grabbed the witch’s throat with one hand and drew his dagger with the other.

Ejnar was already moving to the next office with Afi, when the witch’s screams stopped. “Muggle Artifacts?” he read the sign next to the door out loud. Turning to Afi, he asked: “Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

“Maybe it deals with enchanted muggle items,” his cousin speculated, shrugging. Neither sounded like it would be good loot.

Ejnar nodded at Keld and Riborg. “Check the office for hidden prey.”

The two nodded and approached the door. Afi was unlocking a desk.

“Find anything valuable?” Ejnar asked.

Afi shook his head. “Just parchments. They really love their parchment, don’t they?”

Ejnar chuckled. “Yes, they do.”

He was about to turn back to see how his two wolves were doing when he was struck from behind and thrown to the floor while an explosion sent his ears ringing.

Shaking his head he stood up, wand out, then cursed. The door to the office had been blown up from the inside, and the force of the explosion had shredded Keld and Riborg to pieces. Literally. He exchanged a glance with his cousin, snarling. Whoever had killed them would pay!

Before they could move forward though, a few egg-sized things flew through the smoking doorway. Acting on instinct, Ejnar cast a Shield Charm. And not a second too soon - the objects exploded, and his shield was peppered with small stones.

“They’re still in there!” He shouted. “Band, to me! We’ll avenge our brother and sister!”

Yngvard arrived, covered in blood, with Fryd, Diderik and Edmar behind him.

“Shields up!” Ejnar commanded. “We’re facing someone using a lot of blasting curses. I want him alive!” He’d die slowly for what he had done to his band. He could hear someone, no two people, moving inside that office. A bit away from the entrance.

Edmar and Diderik were the first to charge. They reached the door and jumped inside. Ejnar and Afi followed, with Yngvard and Fryd right behind them. Another of those metal objects flew at them, bigger than the first ones.

“Ignore it, your shield can take it!” Ejnar shouted. The thing didn’t explode though, but set some smoke free. “Bubble-Head Charms!” Ejnar shouted, casting one, but it was already too late for Edmar and Diderik - both were rolling on the floor in agony. He heard another explosion from the room ahead, and something shot through the smoke towards them. It hit Yngvard, despite his shield, and obliterated the young wolf. Fryd, behind and to the side of Yngvard, had been thrown into the wall, but her shield had held.

“We have to retreat!” Afi shouted.

Fryd didn’t listen. The wolf screamed and charged straight ahead.

“Diffindo!”

“Reducto!”

Fryd’s screams were cut off. Another one of his band dead.

More of those things flew through the air, exploding next to him and Afi. Their Shielding Charms saved them again. His cousin grabbed his shoulder “We have to retreat! We stand no chance!”

“Edmar and Diderik! We can’t leave them!” Ejnar shouted back.

“They’re already dead - poisoned! We can’t help them. We’ll inform the Dark Lord!”

Ejnar stared at the twitching bodies of his friends. He heard a faint: “Percy, hand me another of those tubes.”

That was enough. He was no stupid cub anymore, he was a leader, and he knew when to cut and run, so at least part of the pack survived. He and Afi fled, sprinting down the corridor. Behind them he heard yet another explosion.

*****

The Dark Lord casually vanished the door to the office of the Minister for Magic. Fudge was standing behind his desk, wand in hand, trembling.

“R-Reducto!”

The stammered curse was stopped by the Dark Lord’s Shield Charm. He silently disarmed the coward.

“Pathetic!” He snarled. “How far has Britain sunk, if such a worm like you is Minister?” Of course the sheep would have elected a weak leader. They feared power.

Fudge opened his mouth, but didn’t seem to manage to say anything. He was panting and sweating, shaking with fear. For a moment, Voldemort was tempted to end the man right there. A Killing Curse, and it would be done; Britain’s leader defeated. But Fudge wasn’t Britain’s leader. Dumbledore was. Fudge was just a puppet. And he knew just the person who liked to play with puppets.

“Bella…” he glanced at her, smiling.

“Yes, Master!” His love beamed at him.

“Enjoy yourself!”

“Thank you, Master!”

*****

When Albus Dumbledore opened his eyes, he found himself inside his office at Hogwarts, on the floor. Alive. Unhurt even, or close enough. He was still tired though, if no longer exhausted. And wearing the burned and torn remains of his robes. He ran his hand over his face. His beard had suffered as well. A weak trill from above drew his attention to his desk. At the edge of it sat a small chick, staring at him. The Headmaster smiled at it.

“You must have shed many tears for me, Fawkes.” Otherwise he would be dead.

A trill answered him, and the phoenix chick hopped down, landing on his chest, and trying to feed him a lemon drop.

Chuckling, Albus accepted it, petting his saviour. He owed the phoenix his life, twice over.

“It was a close call, for both of us.” He looked around and spotted ashes on the floor, next to his head. “Really close, indeed.”

Sighing, he stood up and summoned a replacement robe. He was wasting precious time, he admonished himself. If Voldemort could destroy the wards protecting the Ministry, then he could likely breach the wards of Hogwarts as well.

He strode out of his office. He had a witch to meet, a school to prepare and an Order to rally.

*****

Hermione Granger was in the middle of the morning Transfiguration lesson, listening to Professor McGonagall explain the intricacies of self-transfiguration. The young witch had read the relevant material months ago, but the teacher was one of the best experts, and she wouldn’t want to risk missing something that she didn’t know already. And it took her mind off the ritual she’d start as soon as the Headmaster returned from the Wizengamot.

The door was opened, without knocking beforehand. Whatever reprimand their teacher had been about to give remained unspoken though since the Headmaster himself entered. Many students gasped at the sight of him - his long beard was rather shorter and looked burned, as did his hair. What had happened at this emergency session?

“Minerva, I am sorry, but you will need to cancel all classes and send the children to their dorms. I shall explain on the way. Miss Granger. It is time.” He looked at her without smiling.

Hermione drew a hissing breath, then stood up. Next to her, Harry stood up as well, as did Neville and Ron on the other side.

“Return to the dorms, everyone,” McGonagall ordered. “Mister Potter, ensure no one gets lost on the way.”

“No, Professor. I’m needed elsewhere.”

“We’re needed elsewhere,” Ron added. Neville nodded.

“Come with me then,” the Headmaster said, cutting off what scathing rebuke their teacher was about to give. They followed him out, though Hermione noticed that Ron looked back at Parkinson first. The girl looked grim.

“Albus, what is going on?” McGonagall asked as soon as they were in the hallway.

“Voldemort has taken the Ministry. Most of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards on the premises have been killed. I do not think many of the Wizengamot members escaped. I was saved from certain death at the last moment by Fawkes.”

Hermione gasped.

“How was that possible?” McGonagall exclaimed. “Those wards were among the strongest outside Hogwarts!”

“The ritual,” Harry spat out.

“Exactly, Mister Potter.” Albus smiled grimly. “Minerva, while our situation may look desperate, we are not beaten. Voldemort is on the brink of being defeated.

“Sir, you said not many of the Wizengamot escaped…” Neville trailed off, swallowing.

Dumbledore’s expression softened. “I am terribly sorry to say that your grandmother died fighting the Dark Lord, Mister Longbottom.”

Neville shuddered, but nodded. He swallowed several times. Hermione wanted to hug him, but that would probably make him break down and cry, and she didn’t think he wanted, or needed that right now.

“We’ll avenge her, Neville. We’ll destroy the Dark Lord, and all his followers!” Harry said.

Ron blinked. “My dad… Percy...”

Hermione felt as if she had been punched in the gut. As Department Head, Arthur would have been present at the session as well!

“I have no news of them, Mister Weasley. The last I saw your father was before the fighting started. He was on the way to your older brother.” He sighed. “But, given the bravery your family is famous for, I do fear that they did not flee, but stayed and fought.”

Ron closed his eyes, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, they would.”

“Mate,” Harry said. “We don’t know yet…”

“That’s right,” Hermione chimed in.

Ron shook his head, but didn’t say anything.

Dumbledore addressed McGonagall again: “Inform the other teachers and prefects: Classes are cancelled. All students are to return to their dorms. The teachers should patrol the castle.”

“Do you expect the Dark Lord to attack Hogwarts?” McGonagall sounded incredulous. Hermione could understand that. Not even Grindelwald had dared to attack Hogwarts.

“Yes, Minerva. If he suspects that I survived, then he will strike as soon as he can. We have to assume that he has the means to breach our wards.”

“But… you said you almost died…”

“Yes, I almost did. But simple arithmancy tells me that should he manage to breach the wards, then our fight will be quite different from our earlier encounter.”

“Arithmancy, Albus?”

Hermione gasped again. “Three orbs. He used two already?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Exactly. But that still means I am needed here, to face him should he arrive. I fear no one else can face him, not for long, and the children cannot be evacuated, not with the Floo Network Authority under control of Voldemort.”

Hermione felt a cold shiver run down her spine, and her stomach tried to tie itself in knots. To do the ritual alone… she knew the steps backwards and forwards, so often had she optimised it. But to do it with a dementor in close proximity.

“It will not take you nearly as long as my recent trip, Miss Granger. I have faith in you, and you should have faith in yourself as well.” Dumbledore smiled, for the first time since he had entered their classroom.

Hermione felt Harry wrap his arms around her. “I’ll stay with her.”

“I fear that is not advisable, Harry,” the Headmaster said, nodding at the young wizard’s head.

Hermione was torn between wishing Harry was with her, safe from any fighting, and wishing to spare him the torture of being near a Dementor. But his connection to Voldemort might make it unsafe for him to stay with her for the ritual - who knew what would happen, with his scar so close? She hugged him, whispering into his ear. “Please… I’ll be fine. You keep our friends safe.”

He hesitated, pulling her closer, before he agreed.

“Gather the teachers in the Great Hall, Minerva. I’ve called the Order - we will need all the help we can get, should the Dark Lord attack the school. I will join you shortly, after a small but important errand.”

Hermione didn’t think McGonagall believed his claims, but the witch nodded and left them.

As they continued towards the Headmaster’s office, Dumbledore spoke up again: “I assume asking you to stay in the dorms is pointless.”

No one answered him, which was answer enough. The Headmaster sighed. “In that case, stay in my office. The way to Miss Granger leads through there.”

It was also very well protected, Hermione knew. Her friends would be safe there, Harry would be safe there. He wouldn’t leave, not if it meant endangering her.

The three boys nodded. “Yes, sir.”

They entered Dumbledore’s office, and the Headmaster went ahead, to the secret door leading down to the vault. Hermione turned around. “Harry…” They were in public, technically, but she didn’t care.

They embraced, kissed. She didn’t want to let him go, but she had to. Time was running out. She had tears in her eyes when she raced past the Headmaster, down towards the ritual room. And the Dementor.

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick was staring at the remains of a tree, destroyed by a blasting curse, maybe a Reductor Curse, and his partner and lover Bertha Limmington was analysing a burn mark on the ground. He stood up and stretched with a groan. “Pointless.”

Bertha knew him very well, and so didn’t react.

“Utterly pointless. We already know all we need to know about this incident: Half a dozen werewolves attacked a muggle village. They blew up some stuff, and kidnapped three young people. Either to eat them or turn them.”

“Vampires turn people, werewolves curse them,” Bertha corrected him, but she was faintly grinning.

“You know what I mean,” he smiled back. “And since the Obliviators were through here, there’s no point in asking for witnesses either.”

“That doesn’t mean we should neglect proper procedures.”

A glowing goat appeared between them. A Patronus Messenger from Aberforth Dumbledore. ”If you hear this, you’re still alive. My brother needs us. Gather at my place. Don’t try to go back to work. Don’t use the Floo Network.”

Kenneth looked at Bertha. “That sounds like an emergency.”

“A rather unorthodox emergency. Even if the request comes from the Chief Warlock, it should go through the proper channels,” Bertha said.

“Well, let’s go eat lunch at the Hog’s Head Inn. That way, we’re not abandoning our post just on hearsay, but merely taking our break,” Kenneth proposed.

Bertha snorted, but stood up. She was worried, he could tell. He didn’t comment, of course.

An Apparition later, they were in front of the inn in Hogsmeade. Despite the early hour, the inn was packed. And with an unusual crowd. Foreign accents and languages dominated - foreign robes and styles as well.

“Someone must have called in all the mercenaries not working for the Dark Lord,” Kenneth speculated. Bertha simply nodded.

“Oy, you two louts!” Aberforth greeted them. If he was glad to see them he didn’t show it. “I’ll be short: The Ministry has fallen to the Dark Lord. Hogwarts is the next target. Bones is dead, the Minister probably as well, and sorting out who’s legally in charge of the Aurors would take too long. So, the Chief Warlock wants us all in the school, ready to fight Death Eaters while he runs that plan of his he has told noone about but which will save us all. If it works. Head through the tunnel into the school and gather at the Great Hall!”

“What?” Kenneth was certain this had to be a joke, or a misunderstanding. The Ministry, fallen? Bones dead? The boss was dead? What about their colleagues and friends?

“Get moving. It’s what I heard from the Chief Warlock.”

“But…”

Bertha’s finger on his lips shut him up. She shook her head. They followed the next group of hired wands into the tunnel.

*****

Harry Potter was pacing in the Headmaster’s office. Hermione was deep down in the dungeons of Hogwarts, that vault she had mentioned, where she had researched the Dark Mark with the Headmaster, about to risk her life doing a ritual to save him. A ritual she would need to do while in the company of a caged Dementor. He shuddered at the memories that conjured up, of third year.

“She’ll be OK, Mate,” Ron said. His best friend looked like he could use some reassurances himself, but what could Harry tell him? You still have four more brothers and your mum?

He nodded instead. “Thanks.”

Neville was sitting on a chair, twirling his wand. He didn’t even seem to notice Fawkes, reduced to a chick, perching on the backrest of the chair, chirping at him. Of course, the ugly, weird looking chick was a far cry from the majestic beauty of a phoenix, but still… “You know… I almost hope they will attack us, before whatever Hermione is doing works.”

Harry stared at him, but Ron nodded. “I understand, mate. I want to kill some of them. All of them.”

He shook his head. “I just want them to die. Before they kill anyone else.”

“First my parents, now Gran…” Neville shuddered again, and stared at his wand.

“Mum will be devastated,” Ron added.

Harry closed his eyes. It wasn’t even nearly as bad as staying near a Dementor, but he hated it anyway, not being able to help his friends.

Someone knocking on the window had everyone aiming their wands at it before Harry slowly walked to the window. There was a broom outside, with two persons...

“It’s Sirius!” Harry said, opening the window. “And with Valérie.”

His godfather grinned, and flew inside. “Dumbledore called the Order to Hogwarts.”

“We know,” Harry said, hugging him.

“I bring good news too, for Ron at least.”

Ron looked up, sudden hope clearly visible in his eyes.

“Your dad and brother are fine. They escaped through some old tunnel. Arthur said he had some artifacts stored, just in case, and used them to get himself and Percy out.”

Ron hugged himself, smiling widely. “Merlin!”

Harry patted his shoulder, happy for his friend. Then he noticed Neville, trying to smile. Neville who had just lost his grandmother, and felt miserable. Fawkes had landed on his shoulder - Harry didn’t know how the chick had managed to fly with its stubby wings - and pecked at his cheek.

His friend suddenly found himself engulfed in a hug from Valérie. This time he did break down and started to cry. Harry exchanged a glance with Ron, who seemed to feel as awkward as himself. In an unspoken agreement, all three wizards present ignored Neville’s crying.

“You’ll be heading to the Hall?” Harry asked.

Sirius shook his head. “We’re covering the sky. There’s enough others on the ground - Dumbledore’s brother brought half an army - and there’s not much that can beat four Veela in the air.

“Just be careful, damn careful, Sirius!” Harry reached out, and grabbed him in a hug.

“Of course,” Sirius said.

“I mean it. No reckless charge on all fours, you know?” Harry had seen Sirius fight, and… sooner or later luck ran out.

Sirius grew serious. “I promise, Harry. I’m not going to risk my life senselessly.” He glanced at Valérie, still hugging Neville, though their friend seemed to calm down, and Harry had the impression that his godfather might mean it, this time.

The Headmaster walked up to them. No one had him heard entering. Sirius quickly filled him in about the status of the school, as far as he knew, while Neville regained his composure.

“What .. I mean, how is Hermione doing?” Harry asked.

“She has a very difficult task, but I am convinced she will succeed.”

With that, the Headmaster left his office again. A minute later, Sirius and Valérie left too, and the three boys and one phoenix were alone in the office once more. Harry almost wished there was an attack too, this time. Just so there would be something to do besides sit and think.

*****

Selwyn had been killed by one of his followers, the Dark Lord Voldemort knew. Probably one of the wolves. A pity - the man had done what he had been ordered to, and succeeded. Although he might not have needed to - given the effects of the werewolf attacks, an emergency session might have been called anyway. Selwyn could have been a valuable subordinate once Voldemort was ruling Wizarding Britain. Ah well, there would be others.

The two Scandinavian wolves, Ejnar and Afi, were leading him towards the office where they had lost the rest of their warband. He must have overestimated them quite a bit, for six of them to fall to ‘Muggle Artifacts’. Unless…

He stopped a good distance away, and conjured a snake to send forward. “What was the name you heard, Ejnar?”

“Percy, milord.”

Percy. Percy Weasley. Muggle Artifacts. Of course.

An explosion shook the floor, and dust shot out of the wrecked door, into the hallway. His snake must have triggered a trap. He sent another. That one returned. Nothing left but dead meat and metal, or so the viper reported. And another door, leading somewhere dark and cold. Whoever had been in that storage room had fled, Voldemort knew. He still sent a poisonous mist into the room, just in case, and let it stew for a few minutes, before ending the spell and heading inside himself.

The explosion had devastated the room, but it didn’t look like much had been left inside. And the door led to a tunnel, straight to the muggle sewers, he guessed. “Milord?”

“They’ve escaped.” He turned to the two beasts. “But not for long. They’ll be heading to Hogwarts, the last stronghold of the Ministry. It’ll fall to us as well.”

He had an orb left, which would be enough to crash the wards of the school. But if Dumbledore was still alive, and not wounded - and he had a phoenix, so odds were he was either dead, or as good as new - then Voldemort needed something… something to give him an edge.

Steinberg.

He turned to the next Death Eater. “Call all of us but the ones bottling up the Department of Mysteries to the atrium. I’ll be there shortly.”

Today, Hogwarts would fall, and along with it, the last of his enemies. Tomorrow would be the first day of a new era!

*****

Hermione Granger fought to clear her mind of anything but the ritual. To push the dark thoughts out of her mind. The young witch shivered. The room was growing colder by the minute, it seemed, and her robes could only do so much. She glanced at the monster in the cage, in the center of the first pentagram. The sacrifice. It was pulling on the bars, to no avail. She briefly wondered if it knew what was going to happen to it. No one had ever done this, not to her knowledge at least.

The body of Yennington was in the other pentagram. Linked to this one through an intricate master rune. ‘Body’ wasn’t right - he was still alive. But he wouldn’t ever wake up again. And if she succeeded - when she succeeded - he’d be dead, his dark mark destroyed, with every other marked Death Eater, and Voldemort.

Could she do this? Could she withstand the Dementor’s aura long enough to complete the ritual? And could she kill an unknown but large number of people, to destroy Voldemort?

It was for Harry. She thought of him, smiling, finally free of his nemesis, and started to light the candles in the points of each pentagram.

She could do this

She would do this.

She would destroy Voldemort. Whatever the cost.

*****


	59. Their Finest Hour

**Chapter 59: Their Finest Hour**

_No one liked her. Everyone hated her. The ugly mudblood with the buckteeth and the frizzy, bushy hair, who had no manners and no taste. She had no friends, and wouldn’t have any friends, ever. Even the other mudbloods hated her. Even her own house, supposedly her family, hated her. She was hiding in a bathroom, crying, all alone. Then the monster entered. Mountain troll. Over 10 feet tall. A wizard-killer. Man-eater. Strong, but dumb. Its hide was resistant to spells, though not as much as a dragon’s. To subdue it, indirect means were advised - summoned or transfigured creatures. Alternatively, it could be killed by banishing sharp objects at it. It could be poisoned as well, though she’d need a strong poison, and lots of it. It would be easier to suffocate it by covering its head with a lump of impervious mud. That would blind it as well._

Hermione Granger glared at the caged Dementor. “That’s not one of my worst memories. That’s the day I made my two best friends! I treasure that day!”

The witch took a deep breath, and focused on her Occlumency. Her mind was behind a wall. An impenetrable, indestructible wall. Nothing and no one could penetrate it. Any attack would be absorbed, its energy used to strengthen the wall. Her mind was behind a shield. A force field. Impenetrable. She knew it was working - she hadn’t known all that detail about trolls, back then.

Then she focused on her task again. She had to place all the candles precisely on the correct spots in the two entwined pentagrams. A mistake would be fatal once she began the ritual. She renewed the Warming Charms on her and Yennington, who was lying in the other pentagram, still dead to the world. He would die without waking up. Die, and lose his soul, most likely, she knew. Shaking her head, she cleared her mind again. She had to do this. For Harry.

*****

“Steinberg!”

The Dark Lord Voldemort strode into the laboratory beneath his headquarters, robes billowing. Bellatrix was at his side, a smile on her face and her wand in hand.

“Milord!” The wandmaker bowed - more deeply than usual. News of the Dark Lord’s triumph at the Ministry travelled fast.

“I require all the wands you have completed.”

“Of course, milord.”

The wandmaker flicked his wand, and dozens of cases flew towards him. He didn’t mention that none of them were safe for the user. He didn’t have to - Voldemort was well-aware of that fact. But with Dumbledore having escaped the battle at the Ministry, no doubt gathering the remains of the Ministry’s forces as well as whatever wands he had in his Order, the Dark Lord would have to deal with his oldest foe himself, and his followers would need help to prevail against their enemies.

He counted the wands. Three dozen. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at Steinberg.

“Their wielders will last for the entire battle, and beyond,” the German said.

They would have to do. The beasts would get the most of them. The werewolves were disposable anyway. A select number of his human followers would receive the rest. It was a pity that a few of his best would have to be among them, but otherwise, some might suspect what would happen to them.

“Master…”

He glanced at Bellatrix, who was staring at the ebony case containing Steinberg’s latest wand. Taking a sharp breath, he shook his head. “No.”

“Master, please. Just in case. I would rather die than see you fail,” she pleaded.

“I will not fail, Bella,” he growled. “And you will not touch that wand.”

She lowered her head and looked away, and he nodded, satisfied. His love was not disposable. A flick of his own wand shrunk the cases, another deposited them in his enchanted pocket. An instant later, he apparated to the Ministry.

*****

“That won’t stop the Dark Lord.”

Aberforth’s gruff voice sounded next to Albus Dumbledore just as he finished transfiguring another patch of the open fields around the castle into a maze. While Pomona started seeding it with a few choice examples of her restricted greenhouse, the Headmaster turned towards his brother.

“It doesn’t have to stop him. It just has to stall him. His doom is approaching quickly,” Albus said. He had said that often during the last hour. Those who trusted him took heart from his conviction.

Aberforth wasn’t among them. He scoffed. “You keep saying that we just have to stall him. And yet, what are you doing out here then?”

“I will do my part, of course,” Albus said, as sincerely as he could.

“Here? And not in whatever ritual you have set in motion to kill the Dark Lord?” Aberforth glared at him.

“My wand will be more useful in the battle. I have utmost trust that the ritual will succeed,” Albus said. His brother had divined what was happening - or part of it, at least.

“So, you’re about to sacrifice yourself, drawing the attention of the Dark Lord despite your condition?”

Albus kept smiling, though he didn’t feel like it. His brother knew him too well. “I do not plan to die, Aberforth.”

“Why aren’t you further back then? In your office, ready to direct the battle?”

“The Dark Lord will seek me out no matter where I stand. By choosing the battlefield, I gain the advantage.” It was true, if not completely.

Aberforth looked around, from the entrance to the Castle to the gates of Hogwarts. “And you’ve chosen this spot?”

“Voldemort has a flair for the dramatic. He’ll come to smash our gates, not to sneak inside.” Albus knew that. Unfortunately, thanks to his own ritual, the Dark Lord could afford such grand gestures.

His brother nodded. “A good spot.”

“Your friends will cover the approaches from the lake, and from the Forest. And in the air,” Albus pointed out. The main entrance would be held by the Aurors and Hit-Wizards. And the teachers as the second line.

“I know.”

Aberforth kept standing where he was. At Albus’s side.

Neither said anything more while they reinforced the defenses.

*****

Sirius Black was staring down at the Forbidden Forest, sitting on his broom. Next to him, Valérie flew. He couldn’t see her, but he could hear the flapping of her wings, and feel the draft from them. They were all disillusioned. The wards of the school protected them, but Dumbledore didn’t think they would last.

“How much longer do you think they’ll take?” Valérie asked through the mirror stuck to his collar.

“They should have arrived already,” he answered. “The Dark Lord knows that the longer he waits, the stronger we grow.”

It was puzzling that Voldemort had waited so long that most of the surviving Aurors had arrived, as well as the mercenaries Aberforth had recruited. Either the Dark Lord had his sights set on another target - like the Department of Mysteries, whose vaults held things that should never see the light of day - or he wanted everyone to be gathered at Hogwarts, so he could crush them in one battle. It was a good thing though - the longer the Dark Lord was delayed, the bigger the chance that whatever Hermione was doing would be finished in time. To think that everything depended on one young muggleborn witch… he snorted. Most of the Wizengamot members would be aghast to hear this. If they were not dead already, that is. He still had some trouble accepting it himself.

“We’re ready though, or almost,” Valérie commented. “They’re laying traps now, and the children are all holed up.”

That wouldn’t save them should the Dark Lord win, but they would be reasonably safe. Apart from those who would fight themselves. The students were not supposed to, Sirius was aware of that, but that wouldn’t stop the older Gryffindors he knew. Or the Hufflepuffs.

“I see smoke!”

He turned his head. Smoke was rising from Hogsmeade. The Dark Lord’s forces must have arrived. They’d soon be upon Hogwarts.

*****

_She was shaking, pressing her fist against her mouth to keep from screaming. She was about to become Malfoy’s slave in all but name. Magically bound to him, magically controlled. Bile rose in her throat and she fought not to vomit. She couldn’t run. The Aurors would find her. They would take her from her family, make her parents think she had died. There was no escape. But at the same time she owed Harry her life, and would be magically compelled to sacrifice herself for him, if needed. Between those two magical compulsions, she’d be torn apart. A slave to two masters who hated each other! She couldn’t avoid becoming a slave, but she could at least pick her master. Harry was a nice boy. He’d not abuse his power. She would be his retainer, not his slave. His friend, even. She could do this._

Hermione Granger shivered while she kept chanting the words she had chosen months ago, and refined countless times since. That day had been the day she had taken her fate in her own hands. Had decided for herself who she would serve, and forced everyone to accept that. It wasn’t a bad day at all.

She focused her mind again. She couldn’t afford to slip now, not in the middle of the ritual. The monster in the cage was throwing itself at the bars, probably hissing under its cloak, if not for the Silencing Spell she had cast on it. The lit candles on the points of the pentagrams didn’t move, only their flames flickered softly, casting an eerie glow on the whole scene.

She finished the first chant, and the candles flared, changing colours. Violet light filled the room.

*****

Ejnar Borge kept waving his new wand around, just to feel the rush of power it gave him. It felt better than when he had received his first wand, as a child. Next to him, Afi did the same as the two werewolves advanced through the forest. Behind them, two dozen more wolves followed, half of them armed with those marvelous wands. Ahead lay Hogwarts, the last stronghold of Wizarding Britain.

Once the Dark Lord had destroyed its wards, the school would be ripe for the picking. Ejnar shivered with anticipation. The carnage they’d inflict on the defenders! The walls would be dripping with blood! His wand grew warmer in his hand, as if it too was eager to kill, to curse, to see their enemies slaughtered as they had slaughtered so many wolves.

Ejnar licked his lips. Remus Lupin, an infamous hunter, would be in the school. He was teaching his hatred and bigotry to the students there, until they gladly murdered wolves. The Scandinavian berserker felt the familiar rage well up in him at the thought of facing that monster, and fought to keep his wits. If he lost his mind while the wards were still up…

*****

“You know… all the other Aurors are with the Headmaster at the Gate,” Kenneth Fenbrick said, looking around. “And the Hit-Wizards too,” he added as an afterthought.

“Aberforth is there as well.” Bertha Limmington nodded.

“And he told us to stick with the mercenaries here,” Mathilda cut in. The robe the courtesan and spy was wearing covered more than anything else Kenneth had ever seen her in.

He scoffed. “I’m just saying…“

“You’re honorary riff-raff,” Mathilda said, snickering. “That’s why you’re here.”

She was wrong, of course. Aberforth had placed them there, with the mercenaries led by Iva, because he expected the Dark Lord to attack the gates. Everyone who knew the old wizard knew that.

Kenneth wanted to head there as well. He was a Gryffindor, and an Auror. His surviving comrades were there, and would be facing the Dark Lord’s worst. But if he went, Bertha would follow him, orders or no orders.

“Someone has to guard the other approaches, you know,” Mathilda said. “The Dark Lord is cunning, and he will send at least some forces this way. Iva knows that as well,” she added, with a nod towards the young mercenary leader, who was on a broom, directing her wands into positions behind transfigured walls.

“We’re also the reserves,” Bertha said. “They’ll call on us once we’re needed.”

Kenneth sighed. He knew all that. He still felt like he was cowardly abandoning his duty. He looked over the Black Lake. The merfolk would keep anyone from coming through it, but nothing would prevent attackers from going around it. Suddenly, he felt arms wrap around him from behind. He stiffened, then realised it was Bertha. She didn’t say anything, just held him.

“Heads up!” Iva shouted. “They saw smoke in the village. Expect an attack any minute now!”

Bertha released him, to take up her own position. Kenneth grabbed her hand and pulled her into his arms, for a quick, desperate kiss.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you two, too! Now get into cover!” Mathilda scolded them, but she was smiling.

*****

_“Shut up!” She shut up. Closed her mouth, compelled against her will to obey. To obey him. She stared at him, shocked, hurt. He had ordered her, and magic made her obey. Tears ran down her cheek, but she didn’t make a sound. She couldn’t do anything but follow his order. Like a slave. He stared at her, shocked himself, as he realised what he had done, and she felt guilty for causing him pain. She knew he regretted it. Hadn’t really meant it, or not like that. And he’d never do it again. Never._

Hermione Granger drew a hissing breath while she waved her wand and directed ten pinches of powdered Deep Sea Pearls towards the burning candles. She wasn’t helpless, she was no slave. She was a powerful, skilled witch doing what she wanted. No one forced her to do this, not magic, not Harry. She had chosen this. And she would not fail.

The powder touched the candles, and the flames burned brighter, indigo replacing the violet. Another step completed.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort looked at the gates of Hogwarts. He could see the wards as if they were glowing, their intricately woven strands visible to his sight. They shone with power, interlaced and layered. The strongest wards in Britain since the days of Camelot, they had withstood every attack in centuries. Until today. He took out his last orb. The runes were glowing, and he could almost feel the shell weakening. But it would hold a bit longer, and that was all he needed. He let the power trickle into him, slowly, carefully. Enough to make him want more, not enough to make him lose control. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and he felt the air grow cooler. The wands standing behind him, having come up from the burning Hogsmeade, muttered. He smiled, and looked up. Shadows floated above him. The Ravenous Cold had arrived.

Laughing, he let the orb’s power flow into him, fill him until he felt as if he was about to burst into flames. Then, and only then, he unleashed the power.

Curse-Breakers carefully probed for weaknesses when dealing with wards, to find the spots that would allow them to unravel the wards without triggering them. It was a delicate, dangerous task. He wasn’t a Curse-Breaker. He was the Dark Lord Voldemort, and he didn’t sneak around obstacles, he crushed them!

*****

Harry Potter was staring out the window in the Headmaster’s office. He could see the smoke rising from Hogsmeade. There was a lot of it - the entire village had to be burning. Anyone there who had not fled to the castle was likely dead. Harry ground his teeth. More people were dying while he was hiding here.

He took a deep breath. He wasn’t hiding, he was guarding Hermione. Who was performing a ritual with a Dementor to kill Voldemort. To destroy the Dark Lord’s soul. To save Harry. She must be suffering right now, so close to a Dementor, and he was safe here. Outside, people would soon…

The castle suddenly shook violently, throwing him against the wall. Behind him, Ron and Neville cried out when they fell from their seats to the ground.

“Shite! He crushed the wards!” Ron yelled.

Harry pressed his face against the window. The Dark Lord’s mark floated above the castle. The attack would start now. People would fight, and die. Somewhere out there, Sirius was guarding the sky above the castle with his lovers. Harry ground his teeth in frustration. He couldn’t even spot his godfather, not while he was disillusioned.

But he could see others in the air. Figures in tattered cloaks, flying towards the school. Without brooms. Dementors!

He gasped. Sirius wouldn’t be able to… those monsters had tortured Harry’s godfather for a decade, and it had taken him almost two years to recover enough to… if he… Harry shook his head. He couldn’t watch while those creatures killed his family.

“Mate! What are you doing?” Ron yelled.

Harry wasn’t listening. He pulled out his broom and his Cloak of Invisibility.

“Mate!” A hand grabbed him when he was about to open the window. Ron. “Don’t be foolish! The Headmaster said to guard the office. Hermione!”

For a second, Harry was torn. He couldn’t leave Hermione unprotected. Everything depended on her. But… “Ron! Neville! There are Dementors! I have to help! You two guard her!”

“Harry!”

He shook his head. The Dementors were almost at the castle. If they were not stopped, their aura would affect the defenders. From the gates, a glowing phoenix and goat were rising in the air, driving a few of the creatures away, but more, far more, had the castle encircled. He had to drive them away to protect Hermione as well. She was in a vault anyway.

He pulled the window open, straddled his broom and slipped his cloak on.

“Harry!” Ron yelled, but his friend had taken a step back.

“Thank you,” Harry said. Then he shot out of the window, wand drawn, and rose above the castle.

“Expecto Patronum!

*****

Sirius Black would have fallen to his death, if not for the Sticking Charm on his broom. Dementors! He was back in his cell. No, in Godric’s Hollow, finding James and Lily dead. No, at Hogwarts, seeing Harry burn. No, in Bulgaria, seeing Fiendfyre advance towards them. No, above the Hogwarts Express, where Harry was dying and Valérie was falling, cursed…

“Nooo!” he screamed, shaking and shivering. He had to get away, had to flee, had to save them… the cold was killing him. He heard voices calling out to him, but ignored them. They were memories, nightmares. He saw the Dark Mark, impossibly large, float above him.

Suddenly, warmth filled him, and bright light bathed him, warmer than sunlight in the Caribbean. He stared as a glowing, flying stag tore through the sky, driving a dozen Dementors away before turning around and shooting at the next group of those monsters.

“Prongs…” he whispered, for a moment thinking that his best friend had returned from death to save him. Then he remembered.

“Harry!”

He whirled around, saw the open window in the tower he had left earlier.

“Harry! Go back!”

His foolish godson had left the safety of the Headmaster’s office to save him!

“Harry! Go back at once!”

“Expecto Patronum!”

Another glowing stag appeared, a bit away, charging more Dementors. His brave, foolish godson was clever enough to hide himself, at least.

“Get back inside!” he yelled, despite knowing the boy would ignore it.

And yet, even as he cursed him, he was proud of him.

“Sirius!”

Valérie. Shame filled him. She had been calling his name for minutes, he realised.

“I’m alright,” he answered. He could hear her sigh with relief, then curse him in French as another stag drove the last Dementors away. They didn’t seem keen on regrouping either.

“Looks like we’ve weathered this wave,” he said into the mirror. “Let’s see if we can give the ground some support!”

Four screeching battle cries answered him.

*****

_He had chosen her as his stake in the tournament. As if she was a piece of property, like a broom or a necklace. Valuable, but not irreplaceable. He had betrayed her trust. Humiliated her. Everyone knew just how much gold she was worth now. People sneered at her. He might ransom her back, should he lose, if he could spare the galleons. If he even wanted her back, after the winner had taken their turn with her. He had a lot of girls to choose from, after all. Girls who were much prettier than her. Pureblood girls he could marry. Could have children with. Who needed an ugly mudblood anyway? Why should he care about her if he was in danger himself? Even if she could help him. Could save him. Would save him. Would invent new spells, if needed. Would do anything for him._

Hermione’s mind was a wall, impenetrable. She clung to that while she walked around the pentagrams in a figure eight and wove complicated patterns into the air with her wand. Its tip trailed blue sparks as she traced runes of protection, runes of purification and sigils of retribution around her. With each movement of her wand, the candles burned brighter, and the indigo light shifted a bit more into blue.

Another step complete.

*****

His Banishing Charm had smashed into the gates, tearing them off their hinges and throwing them away. With the wards down, the path to the castle was clear. Above him, the Dementors swept the skies clear of defenders. They would soon descend on the castle itself and weaken the enemy’s morale while feasting on stragglers and those who broke and tried to flee. Not even the patronus of Dumbledore himself would save them. He had blocked Apparition and Portkeys, and the Floo Network was down. No one would escape.

“Master! The Dementors!” Bellatrix gasped.

He looked up, and cursed. His Dementors were fleeing, driven away by a glowing, flying stag. Who would… he caught a glimpse of the open window of the Headmaster’s office. Potter! That was where the boy was! Dumbledore had placed him in the most protected room in the castle. Even with the wards down, it would be hard to break into it.

His first impulse was to fly up and kill the brat. But the prophecy...

Fireballs and curses started to rain down on them. His and Bella’s Shield Charms easily withstood them, though a few of the wolves with him, who had charged ahead, were not quite as skilled. He saw two of them burn screaming. The sky was clear though - disillusioned flyers. Veela.

Snarling, he waved his wand, and from the earth rose flocks of harpies. Dozens of them screeched as they took to the sky. He raised his wand, let the power from the orb fill him once more, and cast a anti-disillusion jinx on the castle and the sky above it. At once, broom riders and Veela appeared.

He sent a curse at one of the closer broom riders. The wizard’s Shield Charm and robe protections failed to stop his curse, and the man started to cough his lungs out. Stuck on his broom, he slowly rolled over and veered off, crashing into the Black Lake. Around the Dark Lord, his wands and wolves followed his example, and curses flashed into the sky, some of them hitting his transfigured harpies.

“Leave the sky to the beasts! Charge the castle! Victory is in our grasp!” he yelled, and the wolves and wands stormed towards the main entrance. He turned to Bellatrix, who had stuck with him, as expected.

“Bella!” he said, “Potter is in the Headmaster’s office. Take your broom, fly up there, and kill him!”

“Yes, Master!”

*****

“Here they come!” an Auror standing on the ramparts next to Aberforth Dumbledore shouted. The old wizard heard muttered curses, and even a few prayers.

“It’s just Death Eaters, same scum we fought so often before!” he yelled. Maybe that would stiffen their spines.

Albus snorted, but did not comment. From the broken gates, dozens of wizards and witches charged towards them. The spells and fireballs from the flyers hadn’t slowed them down, and now the flyers were busy fending off harpies and whatever else the Dark Lord had sent up.

The first rank of the Death Eaters - probably eager werewolves - reached the maze, but before they could enter it and get torn up by the defenses placed there, an entire section of the obstacles and walls was flattened. The charging attackers had a clear path to the entrance. Clear but for the defender’s spells.

“Will the walls resist that kind of power?” Aberforth asked while Aurors and Hit-Wizards sent spells of all kinds at the attackers. Most went wide: the range was still long.

“They should,” Albus answered. “They have been strengthened by magic for centuries. A necessity, given the destructive tendencies of some students.”

Aberforth snorted. The Headmaster waved his wand, and the spot behind the gate filled with stone. That told him that the gates wouldn’t stand up to an attack.

“Two can play this game,” Albus said, pointing his wand at the ground.

Aberforth’s brother had been the Transfiguration Master before he had become the Headmaster, and he hadn’t lost his skill. The earth which had just been flattened by Voldemort’s spell sprouted holes. Many small ones. The attackers stumbled, some crying out when their legs got caught in such a hole. Literally caught, Aberforth realised when they started screaming and blood spurted from severed arteries.

Another spell from the Dark Lord flattened the area again, including some of the caught attackers. Aberforth tried to transfigure part of the area into a lion, but his spell failed.

“Is he?”

Albus nodded. “He’s keeping the area transfigured. He won’t be able to hold on to it indefinitely, of course.”

“That’s what you wanted.” His brother still kept too much to himself.

The area suddenly rose, turning into a wide ramp that reached the top of the ramparts.

“Well, not exactly that,” Albus said, dryly, when the screaming Death Eaters and werewolves charged up, their wands spewing curses.

Aberforth side-stepped a green curse. A bit away, a Hit-Wizard’s head blew up from a Reductor curse. An Auror stumbled around, his face gone. Not cut off, simply gone, replaced by raw flesh. He clawed at his throat, trying to breathe. They shouldn’t have been hit like that, this early into a battle. Shields and protective Enchantments seemed to fall far too quickly, Aberforth noticed.

His own Cutting Curse only hit an attacker after he had taken down the man’s shield Charm with a Piercing Curse, and his robe’s enchantments with a Blasting Curse. Once it hit though, the spell removed the legs of the man. The wizard, likely a werewolf, dropped to the ground and started to roll down the ramp, trailing blood. Another wizard trampled the screaming man into the ground in his eagerness to reach the defenders.

Now the barrage from the defenders started to take its toll as Shields failed and enchantments were spent. Reductor Curses blew limbs away, Cutting Curses left men and women bleeding out, Bludgeoning Curses smashed bones and skulls, and yet the Death Eaters came on. And their own barrage of spells was more effective than Aberforth had expected. Half a dozen Aurors and Hit-Wizards were killed with Dark Curses, some of them he didn’t even recognise. Sectumsempra though he knew, and managed to save the Auror who had been hit near him with a counter-curse before the witch was hurt too much.

“Take a step back!” Albus yelled.

Aberforth obeyed without hesitation. If his brother yelled like that, you did what he said. The front of the ramparts suddenly liquefied, and flowed down the ramp. Yells followed, and Aberforth could see most of the attackers sliding down the ramp, unable to find purchase to hold their position. Those few who managed fell to multiple curses.

Once most of the first wave of attackers were at the bottom of the ramp, Albus waved his wand and they started screaming and coughing blood. Alchemy at work. Bloody work. And tiring - Aberforth saw that his brother was panting and sweating.

The defenders on the ramparts cheered. Until the ramp turned into a dragon.

*****

_Fire engulfed her. Her clothes were burning, her hair was aflame. Her pitiful spells had failed to protect her. She had failed. She tried to push Harry away, to safety, but she set him ablaze instead, and he was screaming. It was all her fault. Her skin was blackening, turning to charcoal. Harry was still screaming. She was covered in burning liquid. Water drenched her, but that just made the flames grow even hotter! The steam boiled her lungs._

She had beaten that trap, Hermione knew. She had covered herself in earth and smothered the flames. Just as she would smother what life remained in Voldemort. She chanted the next stanza as her wand rose and fell, trailing water this time, the drops turning into small seeds, dropping down to line the pentagrams as the candles started to burn with Green light. She was shivering with cold now, her breath fogging, but she couldn’t cast a Warming Charm in the middle of the ritual. She had to endure it. Not much longer though.

*****

Sirius Black cursed as he pulled on his broom, narrowly dodging the claws of another harpy. “James always said girls would be the death of me, one day,” he muttered as he blew the beast up with a Blasting Curse.

A bit away, Chantal was striking another of the creatures with her claws. She was bleeding from several scratches, but screeching triumphantly when her beak ripped out the harpy’s throat. Spells flew at her, but she dodged them.

Eugénie wasn’t quite as fortunate. A dozen of the beasts had swarmed her, and the Veela was screaming as her wings were shredded. Valérie and Laure were too far away to reach her before she would crash on the ground. Sirius dove after her, his shoulder smashing into a harpy. The ground seemed to be rushing at him as he reached for the tumbling, falling, screaming Veela. He grabbed her arm, slippery with blood, and yanked her to him while he tried to pull up with his broom.

He almost made it.

*****

Ejnar roared while he, Afi and the other wolves charged over the open fields towards the castle. A few spells sped at them from the ramparts, but not enough to even slow them down. His own curses, much more powerful than he was used to, thanks to his wand, tore through their shields and left them dying, strangled by their own entrails. He laughed, drawing his blade as he closed in on the wall.

“Afi, take half of them and keep the wall free of enemies, the rest, climb with me!” he yelled, conjuring a rope and banishing one end towards the top.

A Sticking Charm later, he started to climb the wall. When he was halfway to the top, the roars and shouts behind and below him turned to screams. Turning his head, he saw some of Afi’s group running around, flailing. Others were on the ground, still. They were being attacked by spiders the size of cats! Afi was screaming, three of the monsters were climbing up his legs. His cousin stabbed at them with his dagger, but more were coming, leaping at him. Afi kept screaming, even after he had fallen to the ground, until he stopped moving.

Rage filled Ejnar. Afi had been the last of his warband. The last of his family. He snarled and started to climb faster. He’d kill them all! Make them bleed! Rip out their entrails and feast on them!

The werewolf to his right screamed. Ejnar looked at him, and saw he had been shot by … he didn’t know what it was. But the wolf jerked, shook, and fell down. Poison, no doubt. Another reached the top of the wall, only to stumble back, clutching his eyes. His smoking, dissolving eyes, Ejnar realised.

He climbed as fast as he could while wolves left and right dropped - shot, cursed or poisoned. He was almost to the top when a man leaned over the rampart. He knew that man. Lupin! Ejnar drew his wand, but the hunter was faster - and cut his rope.

The wolf managed to cast a sticking charm on his left hand and stop his fall, even though it almost wrenched his arm out of his socket. Ignoring the pain, he looked up, aiming his wand. His shield would hold, and his curse would...

Something jerked him to the side, smashing him into the wall. He stared at the spear buried in his ribs in shock. How had…? Lifting his head, he saw a giant cocking a ballista.

Then the poison took effect and he didn’t see anything anymore.

*****

“Tha’s the last one,” Rubeus said, scanning the Forbidden Forest. “Nasty bunch. Killed a number o’ tha hired wands.” He flicked his wand, and the remains of a cut rope ignited, then fell down to the ground.

Remus Lupin nodded. “If they had stayed down and kept casting dark curses, we’d have had much more trouble.” The attackers had made a tactical blunder he wouldn’t have expected of such skilled dark wizards.

“Werewolves tend to prefer melee combat, no matter how much of a disadvantage it puts them at,” Gilderoy added.

Neither Remus nor his colleague were looking at Jungle Jenny, who was cooing at one of the Spitting Cobras on the rampart. Or at the dead mercenaries around them. Fleur was flying the worst wounded to the Infirmary while Bill did what he could with those who had been cursed.

A roar, far louder than anything they had heard before, made them turn around just in time to see the rampart above the gate vanish in fire. Dragon fire.

“Tha’s a Hungarian Horntail!” Rubeus shouted. “But far ta large fer the breed!”

“Merlin!” Remus shouted. The dragon was towering above the wall!

“Transfigured. Has to be!” Jenny said. “See how it tries to fly and fails?”

Gilderoy nodded, pale and shaking. “But who would have thought anyone could create such a thing?”

“I’ve got a better question: How do we destroy it?” Bill asked.

*****

_Fiendfyre was alive. Monstrous beasts formed from fire and hatred struck all around her, devouring furniture and walls, turning tapestries and portraits and people to ashes in seconds. Any minute now would the expansion charms start to fail, and they would be crushed by the remains of too many rooms for too little space. Crushed, but not dead.Trapped, stuck helplessly in the debris while the fire burned its way towards them…_

Hermione Granger was shivering, but from the unnatural cold, not the memory the monster had managed to drag past her Occlumency. She should have set up a heater, she thought. But it was too late. At least Yennington was still alive. And would be alive until the ritual ended. Death from exposure was not that fast. She took a deep breath, and made circular motions with her wand, each centred around a candle while she chanted in a language last spoken when Atlantis was sunk. Each candle treated like this changed its colour to a warm yellow. She felt less cold too, as she walked around the pentagrams, and noticed that her skin was tingling, and her hair was floating. She didn’t know what was happening; according to the formula, this should not be happening.

*****

“Ron, we should close the window.”

Ron Weasley turned away from the window, back to Neville. “We can’t! Harry needs it to be open to come back.”

“He’s not coming back, or he’d have returned already! He’s out there, fighting!” Neville stood up. “Close the damn window before a flock of harpies enters!”

That was a good argument, Ron had to admit. He turned to close the window when something flew past him and the floor blew up. His robe’s protections shielded him from the sharp stone fragments, and he cast a Shield Charm without thinking about it.

Cackling laughter sounded from outside. Neville froze in the middle of rushing to the window.

“No…” Ron’s friend said, trembling.

Another spell entered through the window, and the desk of the Headmaster blew up. Neville was thrown into the wall, crying out as he hit it. Ron flicked his wand, just in time to close the window before a broom rider crashed into it. The window wasn’t even damaged from the impact - Dumbledore must have layered the strongest protections he could cast on it. Hopefully the rider had fallen to his death.

He hurried to Neville. His friend was dazed. And hurt, but alive. Ron cast a quick charm to close the bleeding wounds the splinters had left, then woke him up.

“Ugh… Bellatrix!” Neville shouted.

“What?” Ron blinked.

“That was Bellatrix Lestrange!”

Ron whipped his head around to stare at the window. If that had been Bellatrix, then she certainly wouldn’t be… a spell hit the window, interrupting his thoughts and confirming them at the same time. Another spell splashed against the window.

“She’s outside, on a broom,” Ron said.

Neville started for the window, wand drawn. Ron held him back. “Stop! Are you daft?”

“But…”

“We’re safe here. She’s outside. She won’t be able to get through Dumbledore’s defenses. Sooner or later, she’ll be killed.” Hopefully sooner than later, he thought.

“But…” Neville started to say again.

Another spell was stopped by the window. It didn’t look as if it had taken any damage so far.

“You may be right,” Neville said, slowly.

Ron nodded. “I am. Let’s just ….”

The next spell left cracks in the window.

*****

Tom couldn’t keep this up, Albus Dumbledore thought. The Dark Lord had taken down the wards of Hogwarts, a feat unmatched in history. He had placed an Anti-Disillusion and Anti-Apparition as well as an Anti-Portkey Jinx on the entirety of Hogwarts. And now he had transfigured the ramp into an oversized dragon.

Tom couldn’t keep this up forever. But Albus was starting to doubt that he could keep up long enough with the Dark Lord. He was still hurting and worn from the fight at the Ministry, and he was rapidly exhausting himself in this battle.

Aberforth’s Shield Charm had protected him, just as Albus had been left untouched by the dragonfire thanks to his own shield. Not many of the Aurors and Hit-Wizards had been as lucky or skilled though. Most of those who had fought at the side of Albus were dead - burned to cinders. And the dragon would repeat this with each section of the ramparts, decimating the defenders.

Dragons were highly resistant to magic. Alchemy could hurt them, but a dragon this size? Too big to fly, even? There was no choice. Albus took a deep breath, activated the enchantment in his glasses, and started to undo the transfiguration. He barely noticed Aberforth stepping up in front of him with his shield up, or a broom rider of great skill trying to distract the monster. All he could focus on was the undoing of the spell that kept the thing alive. The power Tom had poured into this beggared belief. If Tom had been as skilled as Albus at transfiguration, it would have been hopeless. As it was, the Dark Lord had been somewhat sloppy. And Albus had the wand he had taken from Gellert, so long ago. It gave him the edge he needed.

A few seconds later, the dragon collapsed, turning back into earth and rocks. Albus felt like following its example. He was swaying on his feet, and had to steady himself against the wall. But Tom was still there. He had to face him.

“Rest for a bit, Albus. I’ll take him on.”

Albus shook his head, but Aberforth had stepped away already.

*****

Harry Potter had noticed that he had been the only one still invisible in the air when the harpies seemed to ignore him. He had taken advantage of that surprising fact to cull their numbers, but there had been so many… and the dragon’s appearance… he had been too slow, too late.

He saw Eugénie fall, saw his godfather race after her, and saw the two crash into the ground before he could even get close. Screaming with rage and fear, he sent a Blasting Curse into the midst of the flock that had been maiming the Veela, killing half of them and wounding the rest. Then he dove down to the ground, towards his godfather. He had to help Sirius!

He landed next to them, and saw they were moving. Sirius was alive! Wounded, bleeding, moaning, but alive! And so was Eugénie! But they were on the ground, outside Hogwarts, and enemies were already on the way! He wasn’t able to save both of them, and to take Sirius and leave Eugénie…

He ground his teeth, then sent a Bludgeoning Curse at the closest enemy, shattering the man’s shield and pushing him back. As he had been trained, he followed up with two quick curses, to take care of the robe’s protections, and another Bludgeoning Curse, which crushed the man’s chest.

He saw a broom dive towards him, and almost cursed the man, before he recognised him.

“Viktor!”

“Harry? How are you still disillusioned? I tried myself without success.”

“Cloak. Take Eugénie, I’ll take Sirius!” Harry shouted, casting a few Blasting Curses to keep the rest of the attackers at a distance before transfiguring the ground into walls to shield them.

“Alright,” his friend answered, bending down to grab the Veela’s arm. She was bleeding, and unconscious.

Harry levitated Sirius and was about to stick him to the broom when all the walls were levelled at once.

*****

_He had a piece of his worst enemy inside his scar, and as long as he was alive, his enemy couldn’t be killed. She was shaking her head and whispering “No. No. No!”, grabbing his hand. He was a Horcrux. He was doomed. He would have to die, and he would want to die, to save her. She would be responsible…_

Hermione Granger ignored the tears running down her cheeks. Harry wasn’t a Horcrux. It wasn’t her fault. She was saving him, right here and now! That monster in the cage was powerless! she told herself.

“Diffindo!”

She cut her own palm, and stuck the tip of her wand into the wound, covering the wood with blood. Using her own blood, she drew a circle around the cage, then around the comatose Death Eater. Then she walked around the pentagrams again, letting a drop of blood fall into each candle. The light turned orange, and the temperature grew warmer again - it was still a tad cold, but no one would die from exposure now.

Another step complete.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort gasped when he saw his Bellatrix crash into the window. The dark witch recovered quickly and started to attack the window, to his relief. She would take some time breaking through the defenses, though.

Then his dragon fell. Dispelled, by Dumbledore - he was the only one who had the skill for such a feat. He wanted to recreate the monster, but he couldn’t afford it. He couldn’t leave his wands and wolves without his protection. And he needed more harpies - they were almost wiped out.

Voldemort send a cloud of acid up the wall, to keep the defenders there busy, flattened another section of the defenses and turned the carnivorous plants there into soil. He saw one broom crash a bit away, but didn’t pay attention until suddenly, walls appeared around the crash site.

A quick glance confirmed that the acid cloud was diminishing - Dumbledore was busy still. A wave of his wand flattened the walls, exposing a broom rider trying to rescue the crashed one. He was about to kill him when a loud explosion drew his attention. Bellatrix had blown a hole into the tower!

Pride filled him, then confusion. How had his Bella managed that so fast? Voldemort would have had trouble with Dumbledore’s defenses… he gasped. He had told her she couldn’t take one of Steinberg’s wand! Had that witch gone against his orders?

The spell that shattered his shield took him by surprise. He jumped to the side, dodging another spell, and cast another Shield Charm. Who…? There! Dumbledore’s brother! Snarling, he pushed all thoughts of Bellatrix away. He couldn’t afford to worry about her when fighting that kind of enemy.

*****

A dozen spells - dark curses - flew at Harry Potter and Viktor. He let Sirius drop to the ground and erected another wall, which was blown up by the spells.

“Go!” he yelled at Viktor, raising yet another wall. While that one crumbled, he cast a sticking charm on his broom and touched it to Sirius. He was about to straddle his broom when the wall fell. More curses flew at him at once, and he shot straight up, the closest curse passing right under Sirius’ body. Harpies attacked him - there were more of them around than before, he noticed. He blew the nearest away with a Reductor Curse, then high-tailed it to the Infirmary. A few of the beasts tried to give chase, but a group of flying mercenaries cut them off and destroyed them.

Before he reached the Infirmary though, he saw part of the tower where Dumbledore’s office was explode. Ron and Neville! And after them, Hermione! He dove down to courtyard, coming to a halt next to Professor McGonagall. “Professor! He needs help!” he yelled, removing the Sticking Charm. Sirius had barely touched the ground before Harry was in the air again.

*****

Ron and Neville had almost reached Dumbledore’s private quarters when most of the outer wall was blown away and they heard cackling, mad laughter. Their shields held though, and a few steps later they were gone from the office, Fawkes hopping after them.

“Potter? Where’s the Boy-Who-Lived?” The cruel voice made Ron shiver, but Neville cry - from fear or frustration, he couldn’t tell.

“He’s not here!” Ron yelled, looking for cover in Dumbledore’s flat. Which looked like the inside of an expanded bag, or how Hermione had described it. He jumped behind a floating statue of a centaur maiden while Neville chose an armoire. “Once we see her, Bludgeoning Curse!” Ron whispered.

They didn’t have to wait long. A few seconds afterwards, the dark witch appeared in the doorway. Their two curses hit her and blew her back, but her shield had held.

“You’ll pay for that!” the dark witch shouted, and sent more curses into the room. They flew by harmlessly though, and vanished in the expanded room filled with floating objects.

Ron licked his lips as he waited. There were so many possible curses the dark witch could use… “Piercing Curse next time, and keep casting,” he whispered.

Neville nodded.

Another explosion shook the room, and Ron froze when he heard Bellatrix’s delighted yell: “There you are, Potter!”

Harry had returned.

*****

_She was useless. Raising wall after wall, exhausting herself, just to see her work destroyed instead of killing her enemy. Around her, students, children were being slaughtered in the wreck of the train cars, and all she could do, was trying to do, was protect her few friends. They were at least fighting, but she? She was not doing anything. She was just watching, hiding while others fought and died. Even Parkinson was doing more than she was doing! She was a coward, unfit to be a Gryffindor, or a friend._

Without her, her friends would have died, Hermione Granger told herself while she moved towards the caged Dementor. Each step she took caused the cage to shrink a bit, until the monster couldn’t move at all anymore. Up close, the cold was terrible, and she was shaking again while she aimed her blood-covered wand at it and started to move it carefully around in a complex pattern, far beyond any spell she had cast so far. The captured monster was trembling, shaking, struggling, but ultimately helpless.

She finished the pattern and spoke one single word, then reached out and touched the Dementor’s chest through the bars. The blood vanished with a sizzling noise, then the orange glow from the candles turned blood red, and the Dementor stiffened, then collapsed, turning to ashes under its cloak. The sudden absence of the Dementor’s aura almost made her cry with relief as she gathered the ashes in a small bowl.

One step was left.

*****

Aberforth saw that his spell had failed to take out the Dark Lord, and threw himself off the rampart, into the courtyard, seconds before the entire length of that section exploded. The shockwave pushed him away, but didn’t break his shield, and he managed to use a spell to cushion his fall, but he still was battered and bruised. Groaning, he stood up again.

In front of him, the remains of the walls parted, and Voldemort strode through, followed by his Death Eaters and werewolves. Aberforth send a Blasting Curse at the ground in front of the Dark Lord. It wouldn’t hurt him, but it might push his minions back.

The Dark Lord sneered, his shield unaffected. Aberforth conjured slabs of marble, just in time to absorb the Killing Curse while falling back. He needed real cover. Inside the castle.

A wounded Auror started casting at the Dark Lord from the side, but Voldemort’s shield never wavered, and a flick of the wand later, the Auror was dead. Another spell turned half the courtyard into a field of spikes glistening with green poison. Aberforth just barely avoided it. Stumbling back, he dodged another spell while the last of his stone slabs was destroyed.

Still no sign of Albus. Or whatever ritual he had started.

The Dark Lord laughed, and raised his wand again.

*****

Harry Potter had spotted Bellatrix in the middle of the ruined office and had sent a curse at her right away. The explosion had thrown her to the ground, and he had heard her shriek. He couldn’t see Ron or Neville though. He flew inside and landed. Bellatrix was lying in a pool of her own blood. So much blood, some splinter had to have caught an artery.

“Ron! Neville!”

“Harry?”

Before he could answer, the corpse on the floor moved. He whipped his wand around, but was too slow.

“Crucio!”

He felt as if thousand red-hot needles stabbed into his most sensitive body parts. He was screaming while she cackled something about ‘Summon blood’. He barely noticed Ron and Neville emerging from the Headmaster’s quarters, wands flashing with spells that were harmlessly stopped by the witch’s shield. She was cackling, laughing, while he writhed in pain, unable to move, or do anything but scream.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort was about to finish off Dumbledore’s brother when half a dozen spells came at him from the side. Once again he had left himself wide open, he berated himself while he rolled over the cobblestone floor. He had grown used to Bellatrix being at his side. A few quickly conjured stone walls, he was standing up again, and facing what looked like half the staff of the school, and Mad-Eye Moody and what was left of the Auror Corps.

Their numbers didn’t matter. They couldn’t defeat him. Dumbledore was the only one who might have had a chance, before the ritual. And he wasn’t alone.

“Slaughter them!” He yelled, and his Death Eaters and wolves surged forward. The first rank didn’t get far though - they vanished when the ground abruptly opened in front of them, too close for them to stop. Half a dozen vanished in the ground, which closed up at once. The rest ended up in a crossfire. He knew who had done this. Dumbledore. Looking around, he spotted the old wizard on a balcony overlooking the courtyard.

He grinned and was about to blast the thing to pieces, when he suddenly felt pain. Had he been hit? No, he was feeling someone else’s pain. Someone under the Cruciatus! How was this possible?

He caught a few glimpses. Enough to recognise Bellatrix. Potter! He had a link to Potter!

*****

Hermione Granger carefully mixed the ashes from the Dementor with the phoenix ashes the Headmaster had given to her, and her own blood. She was feeling a bit light-headed now, but she had a duty to fulfill. Her skin was still tingling, and her hair was still floating, though not hindering her.

Stepping up to the comatose body of Yennington, she started to paint a rune around his exposed Dark Mark using the concoction she had just completed. With each stroke of her work, one candle went out. With the last stroke, she was left in darkness. Then the rune on Yennington started to glow, followed by the entire pentagram. Only one thing was left.

She sat down next to the Death Eater, and closed her eyes.

Visualise the part as the whole, then that as the sum of its parts.

She could imagine the soul, whole even if apart. A dark soul, an ugly soul, stained and dripping with blood. Like her hands, right now.

See the bonds that hold the whole together. The force that forms the whole.

She saw it. She could feel it, could almost touch it. The part of his soul inside Yennington.

And destroy it.

She raised her wand, the tip dripping with her concoction. She touched the Dark Mark, and spoke the last word of her ritual.

“Nex.”

*****


	60. Resolution

**Chapter 60: Resolution**

The Dark Mark flared up, lit by all the colours of the rainbow. Black smoke rose from it. Yennington jerked and opened his eyes. Then he screamed. And kept screaming as he thrashed, his flailing arms and legs knocking the extinguished candles around.

Hermione Granger was grateful that she didn’t catch more than a glimpse of the Death Eater’s expression before his head jerked back and his face was hidden in the shadows cast by the glowing mark. When he finally stopped screaming, she was exhausted, spent. And relieved. And she felt guilty.

She didn’t know how much time had passed. How long it had taken the man to die.

“L-lumos!”

The tip of her wand lit up, illuminating the room. Yennington was on his side, sightless eyes staring at the floor. His entire left arm was blackened. The Dark Mark was gone, replaced by a rotting hole down to the bone. The stench of burned flesh, and worse, hit her, and she retched, then vomited right next to the corpse, until nothing but bile came out.

Wiping her mouth, she cast a Bubble-Head Charm, then gulped down the clean air it produced until she felt better. Standing up on shaky legs, she pointed her wand at the corpse.

“Evanesco!”

Yennington’s remains disappeared. It took a few more castings to remove all other traces of the ritual, and she almost collapsed at the end, but it had to be done. She couldn’t leave any reminder of what she had done. Her memories were bad enough.

She had killed every marked Death Eater. She had destroyed a soul.

And she had saved Harry.

*****

Ron Weasley screamed as he cast a Piercing Curse at the dark witch who was torturing Harry. His spell was absorbed by her shield, as was Neville’s Cutting Curse. And Ron’s Bludgeoning Curse. And Neville’s Reductor Curse. Bellatrix was laughing, her wand pointed at their screaming friend. Her entire front was covered in blood, dripping from her robe.

“Confringo!”

His Blasting Curse hit her shield, and he saw it waver. So did the witch. She whirled around, facing Ron and Neville, and her face split in a crazy grin while her wand flew up, pointing at them. Ron jumped to the side, rolling behind the Headmaster’s desk.

Neville wasn’t as quick or nimble, and Ron heard him scream in pain. He popped up behind the desk and sent another Piercing Curse at the witch. Her shield shattered, but before he could cast again, a flick of her wrist threw the desk into him. His own Shield Charm shattered, but it stopped Ron from getting crushed against the wall.

Neville though, was in a bad way. His left arm was shriveling, his hand blackened and twisted, while he writhed on the floor. Ron’s friend all but jabbed his wand into his arm.

“Diffindo!”

Neville cut his own arm off! Ron saw blood spurt from severed arteries.

The dark witch was cackling with glee. “Ohhh! Little Neville cut himself up! How clumsy! Do you need a hand?”

She had recast her Shield Charm, and Ron’s next two spells were stopped by it. But he had caught her attention again. For a moment, Ron thought time slowed down. The dark witch was turning towards him. Behind her, Harry was stirring and Neville was casting something at his stump while the blood kept spurting out. Her wand was raising, jabbing towards him. He was about to slide down behind the desk, but knew he wouldn’t be fast enough.

Then Bellatrix froze and screamed. Her left arm lit up and started to smoke.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort had a link to Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived! If he had known this… and now they boy was being tortured by Bellatrix, and Voldemort could feel Potter’s pain. It was just a pale shadow of what the brat was suffering, but it was distracting. As distracting, he thought, as the fact that Bella was torturing the boy instead of killing him - had she fallen that quickly to the influence from the wand?

He couldn’t dwell on either thought, not in the middle of a battle with Dumbledore. A wave of his wand raised another wall, and temporarily shielded, he sent Fiendfyre at the balcony Dumbledore was standing on.

His werewolves and Death Eaters - those who had not fallen to Dumbledore’s spells - had engaged the teachers and Aurors. Even without Steinberg’s wands, they would provide enough of a distraction for him to finish Moody and Dumbledore’s brother. With those wands… he grinned.

A quick glance confirmed that the Fiendfyre he had unleashed was still confined to the balcony. The magnificent basilisk formed out of cursed fire twisted back and forth, its gaping maw seeking more fuel, but unable to progress, held back by continuously shifting, growing stone walls. He grinned. That would keep his old foe busy while he slaughtered the worms around him.

Moody had crushed his walls in the meantime, and the old Auror was coming at him, a snarl on his mutilated face. Voldemort, in a body far younger and nimbler, sidestepped the man’s first volley of curses and retaliated with some curses of his own. The man’s Shield Charm shattered, and a Piercing Curse struck Moody’s good leg while the Auror jumped to the side, behind debris.

The Dark Lord sent a few Blasting Curses at Dumbledore’s brother, driving him into cover, then aimed his wand at the debris.

“Supra Onus!”

The charm had been developed by a follower of Grindelwald, to blind and deafen a target by overloading their senses. It had been a failure, its effect far too weak to justify casting it. But the Dark Lord had power to spare still, and Moody was famous for using an enchanted eye. Voldemort heard the tough old Auror scream, and smiled.

“Bombarda!”

The debris blew up, shredding Moody and opening a crater two yards deep. It also killed a few wolves, but taking out the veteran Auror was worth their lives, and more. The rest of the wolves and Death Eaters were pressing the enemies hard. Mostly. He saw Flitwick kill one of the wolves with a charm that was only not banned in Britain because it had been a family spell of a now extinct line. He idly wondered how the half-breed had learned it while sending a pair of Killing Curses at the diminutive teacher. They were intercepted by two walls rising from the floor - McGonagall’s work.

Snarling himself, he turned the stone she was standing on into a field of spikes. She screamed when her legs were pierced, but when he sent another volley of curses at her, she changed into a cat and the spells passed her. She wouldn’t escape though, another…

His shield flared when several spells hit it. He dodged to the side, only to find himself in the middle of a oil slick, which went up in flames right afterwards. Dumbledore’s brother had flanked him, and taken out a few Death Eaters on his way.

Enough! He ignored the fire; his robe’s protections would keep it from harming him. He didn’t have to fight like those worms! He had the power to shatter the wards of Hogwarts, he could crush them like the bugs they are! He was the Dark Lord Voldemort!

He jabbed his wand at the ground.

“Terra Unda!”

A circular wave of stone and earth rose around him and rushed away, tearing up the ground and crushing everything in its path before smashing against the walls of the school, breaching them in several spots.

The wave had left broken wizards and witches and animals in its wake, many of them half-buried in the rubble that was left of the ground. He saw Dumbledore’s brother had survived. The wizard was hurt though, and struggling to get up. Easy prey.

Pain. Worse than he had ever suffered. Worse than the Cruciatus. Different too… and yet familiar. This was… his soul! Something was attacking his very soul! He fell to his knees, unable to stand, unable to speak, unable to breath even. His skin was smoking, as if his body was burning from the inside! The pain! He willed a shield in place, but it did nothing. It wasn’t a spell… it was a ritual! The link! They were attacking through the link!

He wouldn’t die, not like this, not when he had won! He focused his will on the link to Potter.

He would possess the boy before he died!

*****

Harry Potter was screaming. The pain was unbearable. Then it suddenly cut off. The witch was laughing still, taunting his friends, cursing them, and he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even move with his limbs still jerking around.

Ron was screaming, but with rage, not pain. Harry would have smiled, had he been able to control his muscles. Then Neville screamed. With pain and horror. And the dark witch laughed. Cackled. Enraged, Harry fought to move, to get up, to help his friends. His body didn’t want to obey him though. He lifted his head, turned it, excruciatingly slowly. He saw the witch, then Neville, bleeding, and Ron. She was about to kill his best friend!

Suddenly, the witch screamed, and smoke rose from her arm, and Harry felt elated. Hermione had done it! Had finished the ritual! They had won!

Then the pain hit him, through his scar. Blood flowed down his face. Another vision? He focused on his Occlumency, he didn’t want to watch, much less feel the Dark Lord die!

His mind was protected by an impenetrable wall, smooth and strong, keeping the pain away… he felt a probe smash into it. Shatter it. The pain increased. He felt rage too, and desperation - and couldn’t tell if it was his, or Voldemort’s. Grinding his teeth, he tried to fight back. His mind was protected. It was his! Harry focused on pushing the probe away, rebuilding his wall, his shield. To no avail.

He felt the Dark Lord slice through his mental barriers, into his mind. Bringing his own rage and pain with him. Tainting him!

Harry didn’t hear how he growled, screamed, didn’t see how more blood poured from his scar, how his eyes started to glow, didn’t feel his head smashing into the stone floor while he thrashed around. He couldn’t feel or sense anything but the Dark Lord’s presence in his mind.

And he wanted it gone!

He didn’t try to raise walls, didn’t attempt to push it back anymore. He wanted to destroy the Dark Lord before Voldemort destroyed him. He ignored the pain, knowing the Dark Lord would be suffering far worse, and struck at Voldemort, tearing at the Dark Lord’s mind. That monster had killed his parents, had killed so many people, so many innocents. It would not kill anyone else. Not today. Not ever again.

He wasn’t just fighting for himself, but for all his friends. And for Hermione.

*****

The Dark Lord Voldemort was dying. He knew it. His soul was being shredded. The pain was unbelievable. He didn’t know who was doing this. It wasn’t Dumbledore - the old wizard had been fighting him, not doing a ritual. And the Headmaster wouldn’t have used such dark magic anyway. But whoever was doing this was using the link to Potter. If he could possess the boy, he could attack him. Disrupt the ritual. It was the only chance he had. His Horcruxes would not save him from this.

He did his best to ignore the pain and pushed on.

The boy was brave, and stubborn. And foolish. His Occlumency shields didn’t stop Voldemort. And Potter’s attempt at attacking him directly was pathetic. A child could not match his decades of experience, nor his will, tested and trained against the worst temptations and dangers of the Dark Arts!

To his surprise, the boy put up more resistance than he had expected. Voldemort couldn’t brush his presence away, couldn’t simply take over the body. Something, someone must be helping Potter. The pain was growing worse. He tried to pour it into the boy’s mind, overwhelm him with it.

It didn’t work. But he had sensed something. A weakness! Fending off the next attack, he struck out at Potter’s memories. The brat knew who was doing this to him! It was…

… the girl? The mudblood was killing him? The shock made him falter, just for an instant, but it was enough. Potter struck at him, and the pain had grown worse. He had not much time left. He had to rally, to strike back, to…

The girl wasn’t here! She was deep down in the dungeons of Hogwarts! He couldn’t reach her, not in time to stop her. But if she wasn’t attacking him through the link to Potter…

He pushed on, half-mad with pain from the attack on his soul and Potter’s mental strikes, sifting through the boy’s memories. The mudblood was attacking through the Dark Mark! Bella!

The last thing he saw was Potter’s memories of his Bella screaming as the Dark Mark started killing her.

*****

Aberforth Dumbledore had survived that terrible spell. He had even managed to recast a Shield Charm and raise his wand, despite his broken leg and arm. He would meet his end on his feet, facing the Dark Lord.

His end didn’t come. The Dark Lord collapsed, screaming, as black smoke rose from his skin. Aberforth shuddered. Ritual magic. Dark Ritual Magic. He glanced to the balcony, where the Fiendfyre was still raging, if diminished. What had his brother done? Aberforth knew the price such magic demanded!

With a mixture of horror and relief he saw that the Dark Lord’s body was evaporating, going up in thick, foul black smoke. And the wizard was screaming, kept screaming, was trying to scream even when there were no lungs anymore to provide the air to scream. When anyone else would have been dead already. And Aberforth stared, unable to take his eyes off him, until all that remained were the Dark Lord’s robe and wand.

Merlin!

A voice loud enough to be heard in all of Hogwarts made him jerk and almost fall down when he twisted his broken leg. Albus. He was still alive then. The relief he felt was soon suppressed.

Aberforth looked up. His brother looked like death warmed over, but he was standing, and able to cast still. An Amplifying Charm, at least.

“The Dark Lord has fallen! Victory is ours!”

*****

Kenneth Fenbrick was panting and bleeding. The gash in his right side had opened up again when he had taken a dive to the ground and rolled behind the remains of a conjured wall to escape that purple curse coming at him. He was the last fool who had participated in that sally that had routed the enemy’s second wave still outside the walls and alive.

“Episkey!”

The pain didn’t lessen much, but it stilled the bleeding. Hopefully. He peeked over the debris providing him with cover, then ducked again when a Blasting Curse hit the ground nearby. He changed his position by crawling along the wall’s remains while another curse flew over the wall. Those Death Eaters threw curses as if they were hexes.

He heard the enemies howling. They’d charge again. He had to get inside Hogwarts! But the breach in the school’s walls was twenty yards away. He wouldn’t make it. And Disillusionment Spells didn’t work.

The howling grew in volume. They were charging. He cursed. He hadn’t done this since Hogwarts, and he had been drunk at the time, and it had been a dare. But he had no choice. His broom had been shredded in the first sally.

He raised a wall. It wouldn’t last more than a few seconds. But he didn’t need more than that to point his wand at himself.

“Depulso!”

He shot through the air, towards the breach. His robe’s protections had prevented him from breaking his own ribs, but they were spent - again - now, and the impact would hurt. Especially since he might have misjudged his aim in his haste.

“Accio Kenneth’s robe!”

He was yanked off his collision course with the wall, and before he could get his bearings he collided with someone. The two of them rolled over the cobblestones, with him ending up on top when they finally stopped. Blinking, he stared at Bertha’s frowning face.

“I should hex you, Ken! How stupid can you be?”

That was Mathilda, standing next to him. She looked bruised and battered, but wasn’t bleeding or missing any body parts.

“He’s a Gryff,” Bertha said. She was unhurt as well. Fortunately.

“Stop fooling around and get in line!” Iva shouted. Her mercenaries - those still able to fight - were already sending volleys of spells at the breach. Kenneth saw one enemy jump through the breach and get bisected before he hit the ground. He cast a few spells of his own, together with Bertha and Mathilda. Auror training had never covered casting blindly, but Iva’s tactics worked when faced with a horde of seemingly suicidal enemies intent on rushing your position no matter the cost.

“The Dark Lord has fallen! Victory is ours!”

Kenneth blinked as he heard Dumbledore’s announcement. The Dark Lord was dead? And Dumbledore was alive? Yes!

“You’re not joining another sally,” Bertha said, in that tone he knew meant that she was dead serious.

Iva’s mercenaries had no such orders, and charged. Or counter-charged. Kenneth wasn’t an expert on such terms - he hadn’t known what a sally was until today. Half the enemies he could see turned away, the rest kept coming at the defenders, casting curses until they were overwhelmed.

“They’re running! Pursue them!” Iva shouted, and her surviving wands roared, giving chase.

Kenneth checked the skies. Their flyers and broom riders were still hard-pressed by the harpies, but if the Dark Lord had died and his followers were fleeing, the skies would soon be clear as well.

They had won the day, and the war. Kenneth didn’t want to think at what cost though.

*****

“The Dark Lord has fallen! Victory is ours!”

Arthur Weasley took a deep breath and started to smile upon hearing Dumbledore. They had won! The battle was still going on though. In the sky, and, judging by the sounds he was hearing, on the walls.

He looked at Percy, standing next to him, behind their transfigured barrier. In front of them, he had placed half a dozen ‘Claymores’, with their ‘front toward enemy’, as it said on the devices themselves. Or, in this case, toward the side door they were guarding. Or rather, the stone wall they had replaced it with, after a group of dark wizards had broken through.

He saw that his son was about to move, and held him back with a gesture. “Son, we still have to stay at our post. The enemy may have lost, but they are still fighting.”

Percy nodded. Arthur raised his voice a bit. “That goes for you too.”

Above them, on the wall, Fred and George grudgingly acknowledged the order. Arthur was certain that if half the Gryffindor seventh years and a smattering of sixth years hadn’t been with his sons up there, ready to follow them, the twins would have charged off. They had grown up, finally. Some at least.

He also was certain Minerva would tear a strip off him for not sending the boys and girls back to the dorm, but he knew they’d not have obeyed. Gryffindors were brave, after all. At least this area had been rather safe, with no convenient approaches for large numbers.

Ginny would have been there too, if not for Molly gathering her daughter, and Luna and Aicha, and all but sitting on them. Arthur chuckled, thinking of the girl’s reaction. Ginny had forgotten that he and Molly knew their children very well.

He worried about Ron and Bill though. He hadn’t seen either during the battle. Ron should be safe in Dumbledore’s office, with Neville, but Bill was with Fleur helping Rubeus and Remus. And those two wouldn’t stay safe.

He wanted to go and look for them, but as he had told his sons: They couldn’t leave their post yet.

“Why haven’t you used those muggle devices before today?” Percy asked.

Arthur smiled. “They’re not that effective, son. No more than a well-placed Blasting Curse.”

“But you can stack them. And you’d need a really well-placed curse to duplicate the shrapnel.”

Arthur nodded. “Right. But it’s still not that big of an advantage. Using them would have been more trouble than it would have been worth, since the Dark Lord’s followers would have pointed at the use of such muggle devices to support their claims of muggleborns being a danger. The political cost would have been too high.”

“And after the attack on the Ministry, that was no longer a consideration.”

Arthur nodded. “Too many of those who might have taken offense are now dead,” he said grimly.

“Indeed. You might be the highest-ranking Ministry official still alive, dad.”

Arthur sincerely hoped he wasn’t. That would mean even more people than he had thought had died.

*****

Remus Lupin watched the last of those Death Eaters who had not run scream and cast blindly after getting hit in the face by one of Hagrid’s Spitting Cobras. He disarmed the wizard and caught the wand flying towards him. He didn’t bother finishing the man off; the poison would kill him soon enough.

“The rest are fleeing,” Gilderoy said, joining him. The author and temporary teacher looked far less disheveled than anyone who had been in such a fight had any right to be.

Remus took a closer look at the wand. He didn’t recognize the style, but it felt wrong in his hand. Wrong and powerful. He shuddered. The Headmaster would want to see it, otherwise he’d have destroyed it already.

“Prussian style, unless I’m mistaken,” his colleague said.

“Not Gregorovitch’s work though.”

“No. Someone else. And skilled, but not well-known. Or not well-known anymore,” Gilderoy added.

“It feels very different. It could be a new wandmaker.”

“Maybe. But the style looks a bit too… sophisticated.”

“You’re right.”

Jenny and Rubeus joined them. “The area’s clear of them now. The centaurs will be finishing off those who fled into the forest,” the Australian said. Remus noticed that her boots were covered with blood. The charms on them must have failed. If she had ever cast them in the first place - the witch had sometimes peculiar ideas about clothes. Bill and Fleur were in the Infirmary, helping Pomfrey. Remus knew their expertise with foreign curses would be needed - those attackers had cast a lot of curses Remus had only recognised thanks to his extensive study of the Dark Arts.

He handed the wand over to Rubeus. As a half-giant, he’d not be affected by the wand’s lure. “Please give this to the Headmaster. He might use it to find out who made it.” They had recovered dozens of those wands, but this one seemed to be the most advanced Remus had seen to date.

“Yer not gonna give it ta him yerself?”

Remus shook his head. “No. I’m going to see my … the children.”

Rubeus smiled widely. “Of course! The little tykes will be glad to see you!”

Jenny and Gilderoy were smiling as well at his slip of the tongue. Remus simply nodded, and left. He knew that as a teacher he should be helping as well, checking on the students in their dorms, but Mats and Letta took priority. They were his.

He found the two children in his quarters, where he had left them with a pair of house elves he had ordered to keep them company so they’d not be too scared. The two elves visibly relaxed when they saw him enter, lowering the kitchen knives they had brought with them. Remus smiled at the two. They wouldn’t have stood any chance against even a single wizard, but they would have died trying to protect the children.

“The battle is over. The Dark Lord has fallen.”

The elves cheered and started to talk excitedly, but Remus wasn’t listening to them. He was looking at Mats, who was peeking out from his bedroom.

“Did we win?” the boy asked.

Remus nodded. A second later the boy was in his arms. He was home.

*****

Ron Weasley had managed to stop the bleeding from the stump, with the help of a crying Fawkes too weak to fly, but Neville needed a Healer. He was stable, but unconscious. Wiping sweat and blood from his brow, he tried not to look at the shriveled, rotting remains of Neville’s left arm while he made his way over to Harry.

His best friend was trying to sit up, but he was having trouble still. Harry was smiling at him, his face covered in blood. “He’s dead. Voldemort is dead.”

“I know,” Ron said, helping his friend up and casting a Cleaning Charm. “Dumbledore announced it all over the school.”

Harry’s legs were not cooperating, and Ron leaned him back against the wall. He glanced at the body of Bellatrix Lestrange. Apart from the blackened spot on her left arm, where her robe had been burned off, the dark witch looked far older, far more haggard than when she had been alive.

“Make certain that she’s dead. She fooled me before,” Harry said.

Ron winced, but nodded and cast a Piercing Curse at her head. “She’s dead.”

“Good.” Harry closed his eyes.

Ron was torn. Neville needed a Healer, but he couldn’t leave Harry alone, not when there might still be enemies around and he was all but helpless. The redhead peered out of the window, or the hole where the window had been. A few flashes in the distance showed the fighting hadn’t ended yet.

“I felt him die, you know. He tried to possess me.”

“Merlin!” Ron stared at Harry.

His friend chuckled. “I just had to stall him until Hermione finished her ritual. Destroyed his soul.”

Ron winced. “I don’t think that’s something you should talk about in public.” Not everyone would think that such a ritual had been justified.

“It’s just us two here, isn’t it?” Harry said. His legs were still trembling, but his hands had stopped shaking.

“And Neville, but he’s … out.”

“He gonna be OK?”

“Yes. Just needs a healer.” And a new arm.

Harry suddenly turned his head, towards the secret door, and smiled widely.

“Hermione!”

*****

Another step. And another. And another.

Hermione Granger forced herself to focus on the next step, just the next step. Just one little step. Even as exhausted as she was, she could take the next step. Even if she had to use the wall to steady herself.

She could see the door now, and smiled. Her torc was warm - Harry was nearby. A few more steps. Her wand touched the door, and it slid back.

“Harry!”

“Hermione!”

She ignored Ron, who was hastily pointing his wand away from her, and Neville, who was on the floor, out cold, as well as the body in the middle of the room and stumbled towards her love. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, and looked as exhausted as she felt, but he was alive. He was pale and his scar was red, inflamed, and bleeding still, but he was alive.

She fell to her knees next to him, and they embraced. “It’s done,” she stammered, tears running down her face.

“You did it,” he said, hugging her. She felt his muscles tremble, and tensed. “What happened?”

“Cruciatus,” he said.

Hermione hissed. Who had… “The witch?”

“Yes. Dead now. Dark Mark.”

Satisfaction filled her. She had killed the witch who had hurt Harry! Hermione smiled, then leaned forward, kissing him.

Ron spoke up: “Keep an eye out, Hermione, OK? I’m taking Neville to the Infirmary.”

She felt a brief spike of anger at the interruption, then shame. Breaking the kiss, she nodded. “Alright, Ron. I’ll keep watch.”

She turned around in Harry’s lap, leaning against him while their friend left the Headmaster’s office. She knew she should be worried about their friends, whether they had been hurt, or even killed, but right then she couldn’t. She was too exhausted to do anything, to feel anything but happy to be with Harry.

*****

Pansy Parkinson was the first Slytherin out of their dorms after Slughorn had opened the door. Greg, Tracey and Daphne were right behind her though. Of course, all of them knew why Pansy was so eager to leave the safety of their dorms, no matter how dubious it might have been.

“The Gryffindor dorms are that way,” Greg pointed out.

“I know,” Pansy said, “but I’m going to the Infirmary.” She didn’t think Potter would have spent the battle in the Gryffindor dorms, which meant Ron wouldn’t have been there either.

No one said anything for a while. Pansy thought they were asking themselves whether she was optimistic or pessimistic in assuming her boyfriend would have been hurt in the battle. She didn’t know either.

“Merlin!”

Daphne’s comment upon seeing the courtyard of the school summed up Pansy’s reaction. It was devastated. Large sections of the walls had been turned to rubble, and parts of the roofs had been smashed in. And there seemed to be bodies everywhere! Pansy felt as if her heart had skipped a beat. The black robes worn by Death Eaters looked far too much like the black robes students wore at Hogwarts. Any one of those bodies could be…

She shook her head. No, it couldn’t be! She hurried on, to the Infirmary, her friends behind her. Someone sobbed. She didn’t know who.

The Infirmary was another horrifying sight. The wounded, many of them with open wounds or even missing limbs, were filling the hallways already. Their moans and groans and sobs formed a cacophony. The young witch was frantically looking around, searching for a familiar shade of red, feeling more and more miserable.

“McGonagall!” Tracey exclaimed.

Pansy turned around, hoping to ask the Deputy Headmistress for help, but her question died on her lips when she saw the witch being floated into the Infirmary. The Transfiguration Mistress looked so bad, Pansy would have been certain she as dead if not for the frantic attempts of a Healer to treat her wounds. Fighting back tears, she searched on. There! That was… Ron’s elder brother, William Weasley. She made a beeline towards the Curse-Breaker. “Mister Weasley!” she all but shouted when she saw he was about to head out.

“Yes?”

“Where’s Ron?” she asked.

“Ron? Has he been hurt?” The concern in the man’s voice told her that he didn’t know either.

“I don’t know… I came here…”

“I need a Healer!” a familiar voice sounded from the entrance.

Pansy whirled around. That was Ron! And he looked healthy. Unhurt at least. Better than after some of their duels. He spotted her, and his face lit up in a smile. His brother beat her to him, only to get told to take care of Longbottom, who was floating next to Ron. He didn’t seem to be angry about it though.

“Pansy.” Her boyfriend nodded at her.

“Ron.” She ignored the sniffling from Daphne behind her. She wanted to run her hands over him, check for wounds, bruises. He had been in a fight, she could tell. Before she could ask him what had happened though, he hugged her.

“You didn’t stay in your dorms,” she whispered, after a brief kiss.

“I was with Harry and Neville,” he whispered back, next to her ear. “Bellatrix Lestrange attacked us.”

She froze. Ron was here, Longbottom was alive, did that mean?

“We held her off, until Hermione killed her.”

Potter’s muggleborn mistress had killed the right hand of the Dark Lord, the most feared dark witch in Britain? Pansy couldn’t help thinking that she was very fortunate to have mended that particular bridge.

“I have to get back to them. Hermione and Harry … they’re not … they need a Healer as well.”

“I’m coming with you.” She wouldn’t let the Gryffindor out of her sight again for quite a while.

She told herself that the others following them were coming because it beat staying in the Infirmary, and tried to ignore Tracey and Daphne whispering to each other while they walked to the Headmaster’s office, where apparently Potter and Granger had killed the Dark Lord as well. Ron wasn’t quite clear on that.

Pansy didn’t mind. He was safe, and that was what counted.

*****

“That’s the last time I’ll let you kill a Dark Lord by yourself, you hear me?”

It wasn’t the best joke Sirius Black had ever made, but it made Harry and Hermione chuckle. Weakly, but given their surroundings - an infirmary packed with the wounded and cursed - that was as good as he could have hoped for. Very, very few had come through the battle unscathed. The worst cases were being transferred to St Mungo’s, after a force of Aurors and Hit-Wizards scratched together from the survivors of the Battle of Hogwarts and volunteers from the Order and other civilians had secured the clinic.

“Yes, Sirius.” Harry said.

His godson was occupying the bed Sirius had been lying in until a bit ago. He had vacated it as soon as he had woken up to find Harry sitting at his side, and still suffering from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. Harry had tried to insist that he was fine, but between Hermione and Sirius, he had stood no chance and was now confined to this bed. Next to him lay Neville, with Ginny sitting at his bedside. Sirius glanced at the stump where the boy’s left arm had been. If he had known what would happen, he wouldn’t have left them alone there. Dumbledore’s office should have been safe, curse it!

Hermione, lying next to Harry, nodded. She looked like death warmed over, and she had been safe deep in the dungeons of Hogwarts, behind a massive door. Where she had performed a dark ritual to destroy the Dark Lord’s soul. On second thought, the witch looked very fine for what she had done. And she had managed to destroy a Dementor.

Valérie was standing next to him, ready to hold him up should his recently fixed leg break again. Or so she claimed. Sirius was just glad she hadn’t been hurt, again. And that Eugénie’s wings had been shredded by harpies, not by dark curses. She’d recover fully. Chantal had caught a dark curse, but a mild one - a gash in her leg. Unlike the poor bastard of an Auror Sirius had seen levitated towards the fireplace. That wizard had looked like someone had dropped him in a room full of knives, and then had let Peeves play inside.

Worse were those who hadn’t made it to the Infirmary, of course. So many dead… But as selfish as it was, Sirius was happy none of his family had died.

“You should go home and get some rest,” Harry said.

Sirius snorted. “As if. You will be lucky if I let you out of my sight before you take your N.E.W.T.s, Harry!”

“Valérie…” his godson said in a long-suffering voice.

Sirius’s fiancée nodded and gripped his elbow, starting to steer him away.

“Hey!”

“Laure will keep guarding them until I return. You need to rest, cherie,” Valérie said, still guiding him away.

“I can rest here!”

“No, you cannot.”

Sirius protests fell on deaf ears. He was tempted to change into Padfoot and make a break for it, then blinked. Padfoot… shouldn’t he want to change, just to find some rest? He didn’t though. Hadn’t in some time.

He was still pondering this when he was dragged into the Floo connection by Valérie.

*****

“Iva.”

Aberforth Dumbledore nodded at the young mercenary leader. He was very glad to find her alive and happy.

“Aberforth.” The witch smiled at him, then looked at his leg, propped up by a conjured ottoman. She suddenly chuckled, so she probably had understood the joke then.

“I’m glad you survived,” he said.

“So am I,” she answered. “Can’t spend your gold if you’re dead.”

Lea’s granddaughter was a typical mercenary. She’d mourn the members of her clan she had lost later. Like Aberforth would mourn the friends he had lost in this war. After casting a privacy spell, he asked: “So, how much loot did you carry off after you helped take back the Ministry?”

Iva’s grin grew even wider. “A lot.”

He chuckled. “Good girl.” The Ministry could afford it. Gold was cheap, blood was expensive - and Iva’s group of hired wands had lost a number of good wizards and witches. Too many in Aberforth’s opinion. “When will you be returning to Albania?”

“In the next few days. Your brother told me that we are making the natives nervous.” Iva snorted. “Maybe he simply does want to save some gold?”

Aberforth chuckled. “Maybe.” His brother was far too active for an old wizard who had been near death a day ago. Albus would only stop meddling when he was dead, Aberforth expected.

“You will visit us regularly, of course.”

“I will?”

“Yes. Or grandmother will be mad at you.” Iva nodded sagely.

“I will then.” It would be good to see Lea again. He sighed. He had wasted too many years, entire decades, avoiding her. Not just her either.

“Will your local friends also be rewarded?” Iva sounded honestly curious.

“Yes. Orders of Merlin.” Third Class, probably, but he’d pressure Albus to grant those among his friends who had given their lives, or their health, an Order of Merlin, Second class. Like Bertram Kettlestock and Lucrecia Browtuckle.

Iva scoffed. She obviously didn’t think that would be a fitting reward. Not enough gold.

Aberforth chuckled, and started to explain to her that the Orders would be displayed in his inn, and how that would annoy the same people who wanted her gone right after they didn’t need her anymore.

Iva was laughing out loud when he had finished.

*****

So many dead. And he yet lived.

Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk in his office in Hogwarts, and closed his eyes. Two days after the Battle of Hogwarts, things were still far, far from returning to normal. He had repaired the damage done to his quarters, but the school was still showing much of the destruction visited upon it, and would continue to do so for some time. Other tasks were taking priority. Reorganising the Wizengamot. Hunting down the remaining Death Eaters. Not that too many were left - all of the marked ones had perished with Tom, and most of the rest had been killed at Hogwarts, as had most of the werewolves fighting for Voldemort. But the one responsible for those abominations of dark wands was still at large. As were the Dementors. But Miss Granger had found one way to kill those fiends, if there was another, less costly, they might yet be eradicated. Saul might pursue that task, once the Ministry was in working order again and his Unspeakables could return to their experiments and research. It would do them some good, working with others again, Albus thought. Even if thanks to their isolation and secrecy, the Department of Mysteries had been the only part of the Ministry that had survived the attack without losses.

He also had to hire new teachers. Filius had been killed by the Dark Lord with one spell, together with Septima and dozens of Aurors, Hit-Wizards and Death Eaters. That Minerva had survived that carnage was a small miracle. Sybill had been killed as well when the tower she had been defending had been crushed by that transfigured dragon.

Alastor hadn’t survived facing Tom. Albus didn’t know if his friend had died due to the Blasting Curse that had mauled his body, or if he had been killed when his artificial eye had burned itself out. Literally. He didn’t want to know either.

Hestia had been defending the approach from the Black Lake, and had been struck down by a Dark Curse that had caused her to cough out her liquefied organs before anyone could help her. A curse so difficult, it was rarely used in battle, yet many of Voldemort’s followers had been casting it, and easily. All due to those cursed wands.

Far more people had been hurt by dark curses than usual in such battles. Their cursed wounds would not be easily healed. Fortunately, Sirius’s fiancée had proven that muggle medicinal techniques, like physiotherapy and reconstructive surgery, could deal with wounds magic couldn’t touch. It would be difficult to organise, but those who would have been maimed in the past could now look forward to a much improved fate. Not all of them, though. Muggles couldn’t regrow limbs, after all.

Amelia, Cornelius, Augusta and the majority of the Wizengamot as well as many of the Ministry were dead. The Old Families had been decimated. And all of them would have to be replaced by far less experienced people. Which was both a problem and an opportunity. With most of the old guard gone, Albus didn’t expect there to be any significant resistance to properly rewarding those who had saved Wizarding Britain, regardless of their background. Like his brother’s friends. Who had proven him wrong about them, Albus had to admit. And would have to admit to his brother. Maybe his next attempt at reconciliation wouldn’t go quite as badly as all the others.

But no one deserved a reward as much as Miss Granger. News of her killing the Dark Lord was already spreading, even if it was rather unclear on how exactly she had managed that. If he confirmed the rumour, few would dare to offend her, or Harry.

The war had been terrible. The wounds it had caused would hurt for a long time. But Albus couldn’t help feeling hope. Hope that the next years would bring a lot of needed changes to Wizarding Britain.

And that a certain young couple would find the happiness together that they deserved.

*****


	61. Epilogue: On the Path to a new Britain

**Epilogue: On the Path to a new Britain**

Hermione stepped out of the lift into the entrance hall of the Wizengamot Chamber with measured steps, appropriate for the occasion. Today was an important day, the culmination of years of work. Half her life, if she wanted to be dramatic. She nodded in greeting at those members who were standing outside the chamber, milling with family, friends, and other members. Most of them nodded back, but some didn’t manage to hide just how forced their smiles were. Many of those were wizards and witches who had been members of this body for a long time. Those who had escaped when the Dark Lord had attacked the Ministry of Magic.

Not all of them, of course. But in the young witch’s opinion, there was no difference between the survivors, and those of the same generation who had replaced the dead. All of them were purebloods, and all of them were far too … conservative.

And all of them were afraid of her. She smiled widely at Malcolm Selwyn and noted with satisfaction that the old man paled and looked away. Fortunately, Harry wasn’t there yet, or he’d joke about ‘fear keeping them in line’ again.

In a way, things had not changed that much compared to the first time she had stepped into the chamber, in the Spring of 1997. They had been afraid of her back then, as well. She looked down at her Order of Merlin, which was prominently displayed on her robe.

*****

_Hermione Granger had felt nervous when she had approached the open door to the Wizengamot Chamber, despite the occasion. Until she had realised that that was exactly what had been intended by the assembly. They had wanted to impress her. Her and Harry. Impress, and cow them. The wizards and witches who had made up Wizarding Britain’s Parliament and High Court had been dressed in their finest robes, and the room, only slightly damaged in the Dark Lord’s attack to begin with, had been restored to its old splendour with a diligence and effort other areas had been lacking._

_And yet, she had told herself, none of them would have been present if not for her and Harry. And there would have been far more empty seats - not all dead members had been replaced yet. So she had thrust her chin out and entered with her arm linked with Harry’s. Her defiant gesture - she had still been his retainer, and should have walked a step behind him - had caused the esteemed members to whisper to each other, which in turn had made her smile. Even more when most of them had looked away when she had stared at them._

_“Told you, they’re scared of you,” Harry had whispered to her, his grin barely hidden._

_“They should be,” she had whispered back. “We’ve saved them all, killed Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and they still act as if they are superior to us.”_

_They had had friends among the Wizengamot, of course. And friendly acquaintances. Sirius. Neville, who had inherited his seat from his grandmother, as well as Parkinson, who had inherited hers from her father. And of course Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and the one who had, together with Harry, largely been responsible for their presence that day. He had been waiting in the centre of the room, with two velvet cushions floating next to him, an Order of Merlin resting on each of them. First class, both of them._

_Hermione had known that the Wizengamot hadn’t wanted to award her an Order of Merlin, First Class. Not to a muggleborn. And especially not to the muggleborn girlfriend of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry had insisted though. He had threatened, in private meetings with a few of the new leaders in the Wizengamot, to refuse an Order himself, unless Hermione would be awarded the same honour. Dumbledore had supported the decision using his own influence. Hermione had still been certain that ultimately, the matter had been decided by the Chief Warlock’s declaration that she had been the one to kill the Dark Lord and his followers, and some veiled hints that she could repeat the ritual that had allowed her to do so._

_“It is with great pride and pleasure that I welcome the two young people who have done more than anyone else to save our country from the Dark Lord Voldemort. Harry Potter, who defeated the Dark Lord as a baby, and then went on to defy him several more times, until he defeated him in a battle for his very soul. And Hermione Granger, who risked her life to destroy the Dark Lord and prevent him from ever returning again._

_“As a reward for those remarkable deeds, Wizarding Britain awards you both its highest honour: The Order of Merlin, First Class!”_

_The old wizard had flicked his wand, and the two Orders had floated up, towards Hermione and Harry, gently setting around their necks._

_While she and Harry had bowed at the beaming old wizard, the audience led by Sirius had started to cheer loudly. The assembly itself had joined in the cheering, if not quite as enthusiastically._

_After a while, Dumbledore had spread his hands, and the room quieted down before he had spoken up again: “As a recipient of the Order of Merlin, Miss Granger is now recognised as a pureblood witch. As such, she cannot be a retainer.”_

_On cue, Harry had stepped forward and turned to face her. She had handed her wand over to him, and he had raised it while she had bent her right knee._

_“Hermione Jean Granger. I, Harry James Potter, Head of my family, release you from my service and from the Oath you swore to me. I return your wand to you, so you might wield it in defense of your honour, as Head of the Granger family.”_

_She had accepted her wand and had felt the Oath vanish. For a moment she had been afraid, deathly afraid, that her feelings would have disappeared as well. They hadn’t. Then she had been afraid that the life debt would have been restored. It hadn’t. Smiling brightly, she had stood up and had raised her wand, touching Harry’s._

_“Thank you,” she had whispered, then she had lunged and hugged him. And the audience had cheered again, despite the breach of decorum. Or maybe because of it, in some cases._

*****

Hermione smiled, remembering that moment. It had been the first time in years she had been truly free. Free of the Oath. Free of the life debt. Free of the constraints of a muggleborn in Wizarding Britain. That alone would have been enough to treasure that memory forever, but that day had become even better. The new Minister for Magic, Elphias Doge, an old friend of Dumbledore, had quickly appointed both her and Harry to two of the free seats in the Wizengamot.

Elevating two students to the Wizengamot had caused a brief uproar among the old members of the Wizengamot. Neville, one empty sleeve pinned to his robe showing what price he had paid in the war, had dealt with that quickly though. Their friend had stood up and reminded everyone that his age had not been a reason to refuse his inheriting of Augusta’s seat. Pansy had stood up as well, backing him up. Both had been among the youngest Heads of families as well, and had already encountered that kind of prejudice.

She didn’t see Neville, but she hadn’t expected to see him yet. He had mentioned he had another fitting of his new prosthetic arm planned; she hoped there hadn’t been any complications. His wound hadn’t been able to be treated with muggle means, unlike many others. Voldemort’s forces had been using wands specifically made for the Dark Arts, and it had shown in the kind of curses they had used. And all because of one evil wizard: Siegfried Steinberg alias Karl Klugmann.

*****

_It had been the first trial she had taken part in as a member of the Wizengamot. The prisoner, an older wizard with long grey hair, had been dragged in by two Aurors and roughly secured to the seat for the accused with enchanted chains as well as spells. The Prussian hadn’t shown any sign of discomfort or fear though, just disdain. She had glanced up to the audience rows, where the brother of Dumbledore had been sitting, scowling. He had been the one who had caught the fleeing wandmaker, together with two Aurors. He hadn’t been wearing his Order of Merlin, and rumour had claimed that he had only accepted it to use it as a coaster in his inn. Since the Orders of Merlin awarded to the wizard’s friends and associates had already been on display on the walls in the Hog’s Head Inn though, Hermione had doubted that._

_“Siegfried Steinberg, you stand accused of having supported the Dark Lord Voldemort by crafting wands for his forces. Wands created by the Dark Arts, as deadly to their wielders as to those they fought against. Wands that were, in effect, sacrificing their wielders, using dark rituals. How do you plead?”_

_Hermione had felt a pang of guilt at the hypocrisy of judging a man for something she had done as well - or nearly done. It disappeared quickly though when Steinberg sneered and spat “Guilty!” as if it was an honour. “Guilty of advancing my art, and expanding the lore of magic!”_

_“Let the plea be noted as ‘guilty’,” Dumbledore had told the court scribe._

_“As if there would be any other verdict!” Steinberg had said. “At least I’ll have the satisfaction of seeing my work endure - in the flesh of many of yours! Others will pick up where I left.”_

_Hermione had started to suspect then that the wandmaker had been influenced himself by his work. Dumbledore must have suspected the same, she had thought, but the Chief Warlock had followed procedure and had interrogated the prisoner, helped along by Veritaserum. The muggleborn witch had felt sick even before the tale of the man’s life had reached his recruitment by Voldemort. What he had done in Grindelwald’s service… She had shuddered. And the wizard had firmly believed that the knowledge he had gained had justified the crimes he had committed._

_His recounting of his time in Voldemort’s service had not brought many new findings, but the callous way the Dark Lord had sacrificed - literally - his followers had not failed to impress the audience. Hermione had felt guilty for being grateful that this trial would do a lot to prevent the surviving werewolves in Britain and Scandinavia from thinking of the Dark Lord as a martyr for their cause._

_The verdict had never been in question - the Wizengamot unanimously sent the wandmaker through the Veil. Hermione had attended the execution herself, as an observer. Steinberg had been defiant and unrepentant to the last._

*****

Unlike many of her colleagues, the young witch doubted that the wandmaker’s work had died with him. Steinberg’s notes might have been been destroyed by Aberforth Dumbledore, but that would not keep the knowledge that such wands could be created from spreading. And there would be wizards willing to recreate those things. No matter what the Minister for Magic claimed in interviews.

Speaking of interviews… she spotted Luna and Aicha among the people mingling outside the chamber before today’s session. The blonde was waving wildly at Hermione, smiling widely. Aicha was a bit more restrained. The two witches had been inseparable during their sixth year, and now were living together, both working for The Quibbler. They made a good team, Hermione thought, Aicha ensuring that Luna didn’t let her enthusiasm take her too far. At least in articles that didn’t cover mystical animals. The Daily Prophet was still the most popular newspaper in Wizarding Britain, but The Quibbler had gained quite the following among the younger crowd, mostly thanks to those two witches.

Hermione walked over to the couple. “Hello Luna, Aicha.”

“Hermione!” Luna hugged her. “I’m so excited for you! This is what you’ve been working for, for years!”

“It’s not been over yet, Luna,” Hermione said. “I expect a lively discussion.” Although she didn’t expect the bill to fail - Harry, Dumbledore and she herself had spent a lot of time working on the Wizengamot members to gather a majority for the bill. But if three years in the Wizengamot had taught her one thing, it was that you couldn’t be certain until the votes had been counted.

“We’ve been asking the members here for statements, and the opinions were rather favourable,” Aicha said.

Hermione smiled at hearing that. She was more than a bit nervous, if she was honest with herself. Harry would say she was worrying over nothing, like before her exams, but she simply couldn’t help it.

“Where’s Harry?” Luna looked around as if she was searching for a snorkack. To think she and her father had actually found them!

“He went to return some files about werewolf criminality rates to Kingsley.” Werewolves were still discriminated against in Britain. Remus, who Wizarding Britain thought had been infected with lycanthropy two years ago by the ‘poor children an evil werewolf had infected’, was doing what he could, with the full support of Dumbledore, Harry and herself, but it was a slow process. Hermione hoped the laws would be changed by the time Mats was old enough to enter Hogwarts.

“And the Head of the DMLE wanted to cultivate him again as a supporter for his further career,” Aicha said.

“Oh, yes.” Hermione frowned. That wizard was even more ambitious than Percy, who was in line to become a Department Head himself, as soon as a spot opened. So different from his father.

As if he had known she was thinking of him, Arthur Weasley was walking towards the chamber. Some had expected Arthur, as the most senior Department Head to survive Voldemort’s assault, to take over as Minister for Magic. Not Hermione though. She hadn’t been surprised when Arthur had used his seniority, as well as the fame he had earned escaping from the Ministry after it had been taken over and defending Hogwarts, to become the Head of the new Department for the Adaption of Muggle Inventions. He had been instrumental in pushing the use of muggle medical techniques to deal with the lingering effects from the dark curses from Steinberg’s wands.

Hermione sighed, remembering how for a brief while, muggle culture had become a fad. It hadn’t lasted, of course, apart from muggle movies and a small scene of muggle literature and music fans. Muggle culture simply lacked magic to appeal for long to wizards and witches. Clubbing in muggle London had been an escape during the war, but wizards and witches, including those born to muggles like Hermione herself, simply didn’t want to go without magic for any length of time if they could help it. Who would want to, after experiencing the wonders of magic?

*****

_Hermione Granger had stood next to Harry Potter at the Leaving Feast at Hogwarts, wearing their head girl and head boy badges, when the Headmaster had called on the gods. With her having been made a pureblood by the Wizengamot during their sixth year, there had been no way anyone else would have been chosen as head girl. And no one else but Harry as head boy._

_Dumbledore had stood up and raised his goblet, as tradition had dictated._

_“At the end of this year, we are gathered to give the gods their due so they will bless those among us who leave Hogwarts to enter their adult lives with peace and prosperity in their future.”_

_Hermione had raised her own goblet, together with everyone else. There hadn’t been as many empty spots as after sixth year - a number of those students whose families had fled Britain had returned after the Dark Lord’s defeat, such as the Patils. And hadn’t that been an awkward moment when Padma had seen Pansy on Ron’s arm!_

_“Janus.” Dumbledore had dipped the goblet, letting the wine pour out. “Bless them with a good start in their new life.”_

_Hermione had felt her skin starting to tingle when she had dipped her own goblet. Just as her skin had tingled during the ritual. She still hadn’t known what caused this. She hadn’t wanted to know, either. Hogwarts, the gods, or magic itself… she simply watched as the red wine vanished in sparks before it reached the floor._

_“Hecate. Let magic protect and guide them.”_

_She had focused on the wine that had kept falling, pouring out of her goblet, more than the cup could have held, and had tried to ignore how the tingling had intensified, how her hair had started to float._

_“Apollo. Keep them healthy and guide them to fruitful and passionate pursuits.”_

_She had been surrounded by sparks then, almost glowing until the wine stopped falling. No one had commented on it though, not to her face at least. Another advantage of her reputation, since this was a topic she really hadn’t wanted to discuss. She’d find out what caused this in good time by herself._

_The rest of the feast had been a joyful affair. The wounds the war had caused had not been healed completely yet, but enough time had passed for things to have gone back to normal. Students had once again cared more about the House Cup and Quidditch, both won by Gryffindor, and their relationships than politics. Most of them, at least. Hermione and Harry had had plans already, even though that evening, they had celebrated their graduation like everyone else._

*****

“Hermione?” Luna was waving her hand in front of her face.

“Sorry, just remembering something.” Hermione smiled. She hoped her friends would think she was going through her arguments again, instead of reminiscing about the past.

“Oh? What did you remember?” Luna asked. “Did you forget to turn off the cooking charms at home?”

No such luck. She wasn’t about to lie to her friends though. “Graduation actually. I was thinking just how far we have come since then.”

“That’s not a surprise,” Aicha said, ”since Harry and you focused on politics.”

“We have other interests as well,” Hermione said. Magical Research, specifically spellcrafting, for her. And that stupid game for Harry. Star Seeker for Puddlemere United… as if he hadn’t already been hounded by fans in public! At least they tended to leave him alone when she was with him, she mentally added - her reputation had advantages.

Hermione ran her wand over her medal, polishing it and cleaning the ribbon. It wasn’t needed; the medal was enchanted to be self-cleaning, but she hadn’t cast those charms, and felt her own were just a bit better.

Hermione had taken full advantage of computers for her research in the last few years. She had published some of her new spells, but the optimised versions of others she had kept to herself and Harry, and their friends. Her advantage wouldn’t last forever, of course, but as with her and Harry’s fame, she would be using it for all it was worth in the meantime.

“Polishing your medal, again?”

Hermione turned around while Luna and Aicha chuckled at the teasing tone. “Harry!”

She smiled at him, then hugged him. She knew older members of the Wizengamot would frown at the open display of affection and love, but she didn’t care. She wouldn’t ever hide her love anymore. “I don’t have to hex Kingsley then.”

“It wasn’t Kingsley, actually. It was Braggling.”

“Simon Braggling? Again?” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Yes. He offered me his vote for today if I would make the DMLE put Paige Caldwell back on the wanted list,” Harry said.

Hermione frowned. “If he had an ounce of moral fiber left, he’d support the werewolf legislation, after narrowly escaping becoming a werewolf himself. He should know best that it could happen to anyone.”

“I told him the same as usual: Dumbledore had his reasons for that decision, and I’d not question them.” Harry shook his head. “That man can carry a grudge!”

“He’s not the only one,“ Hermione said. Luna and Aicha nodded. It was understandable, of course - so many had been killed in the war.

*****

_“... and so we have gathered here to honour the dead, those who have given their lives to protect us all, and those who have been murdered despite our efforts. May this memorial ensure that such madness never again takes hold of our country.”_

_Dumbledore’s speech had been received with applause by the audience - and with tears as many among them had remembered loved ones whose names had been carved on the giant obelisk placed just inside the gates of Hogwarts._

_It had been an impressive sight: Polished white marble, 20 feet high, with black plates on all sides where the names of those who had died slowly appeared and disappeared in an endless cycle. There had been far too many names, in Hermione’s opinion, but she thought the simple, straightforward design had been fitting. Far better than the proposal from some idiot in the Wizengamot to list the ‘heroes’, and the ‘victims’ in separate columns. In a war, everyone was a victim, first and foremost. There were better ways to remember the heroic deeds people had done in the war than by dividing the dead._

_When Dumbledore had stepped aside from the memorial, Harry and Hermione had stepped forward, and both had put their hands on the marble, remaining there, unmoving and silent, for a moment. Others had followed their example, and it had become a tradition for all students at Hogwarts to visit the memorial on the first day of each year, so they would never forget the cost of war._

*****

“There you are!”

Hermione looked to the lift and saw Ron heading towards them, together with Pansy. She was still getting used to thinking of their best friend as ‘Ron Parkinson’ instead of ‘Weasley’.

Ron hugged all of them. He wasn’t wearing his Auror robes, so he wasn’t on duty today.

His wife and Head of Family was a bit more restrained. “Hermione,” Pansy said, bowing her head.

“Pansy.” Hermione bowed back. She and Pansy were not exactly best friends, but they were friendly. Friendly rivals at times - they didn’t always agree on what the best course of action was. Not too often, actually. But it was a civil rivalry.

“Harry.” Pansy bowed to him. “When will you make an honest witch out of her?” she asked, making a point out of glancing at Hermione.

Harry chuckled while Hermione rolled her eyes. That ‘joke’ had been old two years ago. “We are married,” she said, holding her hand up to show her ring. “You should know, you were at the wedding.”

“A muggle wedding,” Pansy said.

Hermione shrugged. “It’s not my fault the Wizengamot doesn’t recognize it.” She certainly wasn’t going to marry in Wizarding Britain unless they adopted the French way of having dual Heads of Families. She was her own witch, equal to Harry, and she’d stay so!

Besides, she had had her dream wedding already.

*****

_The open carriage had been a wonderful choice. Hermione had beamed all the way to the church. A classic model, shiny black with gold trim, drawn by a pair of beautiful black horses. To think that Sirius had wanted to create a copy of Cinderella’s carriage. From the Disney movie! Fortunately, Mrs Smith-Forsythe had dissuaded him from that plan. And from most of his other ideas. No air-dropped flower petals at this wedding either. Nor marching bands. She hadn’t managed to avoid the elephant though - Luna had made elephant rides a condition for being the maid of honour. And Hermione had wanted her, of course. The poor wedding planner had doubled her rates when she had heard that ‘Mister Black’ was financing the wedding, but she had been worth every penny. It had been Sirius’s money anyway - the Head of the Black family had spared no expense for the wedding of Harry and Hermione._

_And it showed, Hermione had thought when she had arrived at the church. Sirius’s gold, and Mrs Smith-Forsythe experience had resulted in a wedding that had outshone even Nymphadora’s, without looking crass or nouveau-riche. It certainly had shut up those members of her family who had thought she had been pregnant, just because she had been marrying right after finishing school. Especially her snobby cousins, who had been half her bridesmaids, the other half having been formed by Ginny and Aicha. Hermione’s wedding dress had cost more than Cynthia’s entire wedding, she had thought. And the jewelry…_

_Not that she had cared that much about the costs, not when she had walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, towards Harry and Ron, who had been waiting at the altar. The look on Harry’s face when he had seen her for the first time in her wedding dress… that would have been worth all the gold in their vaults, and more. The vows had been altered a bit from the classic form since everyone had agreed that calling on the Christian god would not be good for their political goals. Hermione didn’t know how much it had cost Sirius to rent a church for a wedding where the vows didn’t involve God, but the wizard had managed. Some magic might have been involved as well, but no one had wanted to confirm that._

_“I, Harry James Potter, take thee, Hermione Jean Granger, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, and this is my solemn vow.”_

_“I, Hermione Jean Granger, take thee, Harry James Potter, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, and this is my solemn vow.”_

_And then they had kissed as husband and wife. Finally._

_Harry’s aunt and her mother had cried during the whole ceremony. As had Daphne, though Pansy had later told her the former Slytherin had likely cried because Harry was now definitely out of reach, but that had most likely been a joke._

_Stepping out of the church to take the carriage to the reception, they had discovered that Sirius had hired aeroplanes; but fortunately, they hadn’t carpet-bombed the party with flower petals, but had written his well-wishes in the sky. A touching gesture, and almost restrained, for Harry’s godfather._

_The orchestra waiting at the reception had been a bit over the top, Hermione had thought, but the music had been wonderful, even if she had felt some regret that they couldn’t have had magical musicians perform. That had been the only such moment though. The day had been perfect otherwise. As had been the wedding night._

*****

“It’s a good thing they didn’t marry in Wizarding Britain, or she’d be lost twice as long in her memories!”

Hermione glared at Ron while Harry wrapped his arm around her, chuckling. It had been her dream wedding. She knew many of their friends still didn’t understand why they wouldn’t marry according to Wizarding Britain’s law. Not after they both had longed to be able to for years. Pansy at least understood why Hermione didn’t want to exchange her freedom for marriage, even if she teased her and Harry about it. Hermione knew that most of the Wizengamot, and Wizarding Britain, desperately wished Harry would marry her and become her Head of family. They wanted the witch who had destroyed the Dark Lord under the control of the Boy-Who-Lived. Well, they wouldn’t get their wish!

“Harry! Hermione!”

A shout announced the arrival of Sirius Black. Harry’s godfather hadn’t changed in the years since the end of the war. Not even his marriage to Valérie had managed to temper his rakish attitude. Fatherhood might, according to Harry, but the Veela wasn’t showing any signs of pregnancy yet. Apart from his wife, Sirius was accompanied by Chantal, Laure and Eugénie, and Remus with his two children. Hermione noted with a frown that people shied away from the teacher, most of them not bothering to hide their fear, or worse, their revulsion. Some though, greeted him warmly, which gave her hope that the discrimination of werewolves could be fought successfully.

“Nymphadora and Viktor can’t make it,” Sirius said. “Little Rayna has some issues with her shape-changing again.”

Which meant she wasn’t in a shape to be shown to the public. Hermione really hoped none of her future children ever were metamorphmagi. She first hugged Mats, who seemed very excited, and then Letta, who clung to her father’s leg. “How are you two?”

“I’m doing great! Father will be buying me my first training broom! And Letta will get a toy broom,” Mats said animatedly. “I’ll be able to fly as much as I want at home!”

Hermione smiled indulgently. “Don’t overdo it. It’s not a toy.” She knew that the two children growing up at Hogwarts was part of Dumbledore’s plan as well - if two werewolves were raised at the school, any argument that they were a danger for the students and therefore shouldn’t be allowed to actually attend the school would be disproven easily. Remus was already proving that werewolf teachers were no danger to their students.

Letta showed her a Chocolate Frog Card: “Look, Aunt Hermione! I got you!”

Hermione laughed. “Oh… they messed my hair up again.” Privately, she thought it was the company’s revenge for having had to redo the cards for her and Harry so often in a few years. First, their Order of Merlin, then their marriage, then her published spells and works… she had kept the card designers busy.

Letta giggled, pointing at the bushy hair the figure on the card had. “You’re funny looking!”

“Just on the card,” Hermione said. She left the kids to Luna, who started to entertain Mats with a story about snorkacks while Aicha’s genie entertained Letta, and greeted Harry’s godfather and his ‘wife and lovers’, as he liked to introduce them in polite society. Their relationship still looked a bit weird to Hermione, but as long as they all were happy and the temper tantrums involving fireballs were kept to a minimum, the witch didn’t care how exactly they handled it.

Their muggle wedding, six months after Harry’s and hers, had caused Mrs Smith-Forsythe to quadruple her rates and take a three-month-long vacation afterwards. The magical wedding had been held in France, of course.

*****

_“You look pensive. Having second thoughts about marriage?”_

_Hermione had looked up as Harry had summoned a drink for her. She had known he had meant a magical marriage, and had shaken her head. “No. Just a bit tired. I hadn’t been aware that Veela weddings involved so much dancing.”_

_The actual ceremony, in as much as vows had been concerned, had been rather similar to British customs. Just with other gods being called upon - nominally; the Veela revered the Greek Pantheon, which was quite similar to the Roman-based one whose gods were revered in Britain. A bit more archaic too._

_But the rest of the wedding… Veela priestesses had performed ‘sacred dances’ to bless the couple. Aerial dances had been performed to honour the mythical ancestor-goddess of the Veela. Then Sirius and Valérie had opened the actual wedding dance._

_Harry had taken a seat next to her, watching the couples turn around each other on the floor in the great hall of the Chateau D’Aigle. Sirius had been dancing with all his lovers as well as his wife nonstop, making Hermione wonder if he had taken a potion to keep on his feet._

_“You know, if we married in France, we’d both be the Heads of our family,” Harry had said._

_He had sounded as if he had just been making a casual remark, but Hermione had known that he had been giving the matter serious thought._

_“I know,” she had said. “But it would be limited to France. The British don’t accept that system.”_

_“They might, if a few of us do it,” Harry had said._

_“Do you want to marry magically?”_

_Harry had sighed. “I wanted to. Now… I don’t know anymore.”_

_She had hugged him. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Once we can marry without having to subjugate one of us to the other, we’ll do it.”_

_Around them, Veela and wizards and witches had mingled, drinking and dancing and enjoying the marriage. And flirting. Hermione hadn’t seen that much flirting since sixth year’s opening feast._

_“No wonder he wanted to hold his wedding here. It’s a very Sirius wedding.”_

_“At least Rubeus still hasn’t managed to breed a flying elephant.”_

*****

Neville arrived, earlier than expected. His prosthetic arm looked fine, from what Hermione could tell when he greeted them. Mats shied away from the ‘wooden arm’, but Letta seemed fascinated by it. The little girl even asked Neville to hold her with the arm.

Of their circle of friends, only Ginny wasn’t there. The Holyhead Harpies had an exhibition match today and as a starting chaser, Ginny couldn’t get out of it. Or so she had claimed. Ron had jokingly offered to break her wrist, and had been hexed for it. Hermione didn’t know if Ginny really hadn’t been able to get away, or if the redhead’s relationship with Neville was in a ‘complicated’ state again. The ups and downs of that particular couple seemed to keep at least two journalists each at the Daily Prophet and Teen Witch Weekly in business.

The doors of the lift opened again, and Albus Dumbledore walked into the hall. The Chief Warlock smiled and greeted everyone warmly, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous. Dumbledore had been as much, if not more responsible for the destruction of Voldemort’s soul, and he had publicly claimed responsibility for devising the ritual she had used, but people didn’t seem to be fearing him that much. Even ‘Dancing with Death Eaters’ hadn’t helped much there, despite the author’s diligence in detailing the war’s crucial events. Although, once again Lockhart had added too many quips and rather lurid descriptions of his paramour.

The Chief Warlock’s arrival had signaled the impending start of the session, and the Wizengamot members still outside the chamber started to file in, including Harry, Hermione, Sirius, Pansy and Neville, while the rest of their friends and family headed to the entrance for the audience.

The Wizengamot didn’t have politically aligned seating. Each seat had a fixed location, and sadly, Harry’s and hers were not next to each other. Hermione squeezed his hand before they separated, and went to her seat, pulling out her notes.

Dumbledore opened the session, reciting the old forms to convene the Wizengamot. They sounded more like a ritual than anything else to Hermione, but there was no corresponding magic.

“Esteemed members, we are gathered here today to discuss and vote on a proposal of Miss Granger: The Blood Equality Bill. You are all familiar with the proposal; it will remove blood status as a legal means of distinguishing between wizards.”

It would also remove the Patron system, but Dumbledore didn’t mention that. He didn’t have to, of course - everyone was aware of that, even without reading the proposed changes. This was one of the most controversial bills proposed in decades.

And it was hers. Hers and Harry’s.

“You have the floor, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hermione stood up and let her notes float in front of her. “Esteemed colleagues, Wizarding Britain’s customs and laws are based traditionally on magic. We all know that magic is not a tool, but a force of its own. Life debts prove this.” She ignored the whispering that went through the chamber. “Which is why a life debt, even though it is very rare, has such far-reaching legal effects: Magic itself enforces it. This has been demonstrated and proven many times.”

She briefly let her gaze travel through the chamber before she continued. “The same cannot be said for blood status.”

More whispering followed, rising in volume. She cast an Amplifying Charm. “No spell or ritual that would target muggleborns but not purebloods has ever been created. No Anti-Muggleborn Charms exist - and Merlin knows, many have tried to create them. Magic simply does not recognize that there is difference between a muggleborn and a pureblood.”

She had the arithmantic proof, even. Her paper covering that subject had started the biggest controversy in the annals of ‘The Arithmancer’ magazine. As far as she knew, three duels had been fought over letters in the last issue alone. No one had challenged her to a duel though.

“So, why do we dare to act as if there is one? Why are muggleborns and purebloods not allowed to marry?” She raised her chin and pushed her chest with her Order of Merlin out. “I was born a muggleborn, but I’m now a pureblood. My blood didn’t change. I didn’t change. All that changed was a legal classification. Something utterly mundane.”

Hermione didn’t smile when she heard the outraged comments from those fossils who had understood that she just described their legal classifications as something better suited to muggles. She felt like smiling though.

“Where do muggleborns come from? There are many hypotheses, but none of them have ever been proven. Essentially, no one can explain why two muggles would have a magical child. And yet, we think such an obvious act of magic itself is grounds to shun them, and treat them as our lessers?”

She scoffed. “This caste system we have in Britain has to be abolished because it goes against the very foundation of our society: Magic itself.”

She sat down again. Selwyn rose to refute her proposal. He had nothing to say she hadn’t heard and anticipated though. Tradition this, tradition that. At least he didn’t claim muggleborns were dangerous and needed to be controlled.

Harry was the next speaker, and Hermione paid close attention to his speech, even though she had helped write it.

“My esteemed colleague, Mister Selwyn, has spoken about tradition. About the need to introduce muggleborns to our society in a controlled fashion, which gave birth to our current system. Well, I’ve been raised by muggles, and I had no idea magic even existed until I received my Hogwarts letter. I knew as much about our customs and traditions as any muggleborn. Less actually, since most muggleborns were raised in Wizarding Britain. Why wasn’t I treated as a muggleborn then? Because of my blood? I was made a pureblood by a decree of the Wizengamot; when I was born, I was legally a muggleborn, despite my father being a pureblood.

“I was a Patron for a muggleborn, despite being born a muggleborn myself, and despite being raised as a muggle. And yet, I know our traditions and customs, better than many purebloods my age.”

Hermione saw how Harry glared at Selwyn and the other old fossils. “The blood laws of Wizarding Britain are not just rubbish, they are insane! We treat people who were born to magical parents in Wizarding Britain, who were raised in our country and lived their entire life as wizards and witches, differently just because their parents were two muggleborns instead of purebloods or half-bloods.” He leaned forward. “And yet when it suits us, we ignore our own laws, and arbitrarily declare muggleborns as purebloods, proving that blood truly does not matter.

“Nor do the actual circumstances of a child’s life matter at all. A muggleborn raised by wizards to become an expert of our customs and traditions would be forced by our laws to swear an oath to a pureblood Patron. A pureblood raised by muggles as a muggle would be treated as a Head of family though.

“This makes no sense at all. It is time to abolish the blood laws in Britain.”

A few more members rose to speak, but nothing really new was said, even though the debate grew quite lively. But the majority of the members of the Wizengamot had already made up their minds about their vote before today. All that was left was the posturing. Something that didn’t sit well with Hermione. It seemed so wasteful.

Finally, the votes were called. Hermione fought to keep a calm, composed expression, instead of biting her lower lip and constantly restyling her hair. She knew that the bill should pass. The arguments she and Harry had presented didn’t matter much; the fossils wouldn’t listen to them anyway. But there were enough of them who were too afraid to go against the explicit wishes of Dumbledore, Harry and herself.

Dumbledore received the results, then rose to announce them. “Blood Equality Bill. For: 29. Against: 20. The bill has passed.”

They had done it! Hermione closed her eyes, savoring the moment. She had had doubts, irrational ones, and fears, but they had done it!

She still had much to do. Werewolf discrimination needed to follow the blood laws to the rubbish heap of history. She had to find a ritual to destroy Dementors more easily. There were a dozen spells that she wanted to create. And there was that standing offer from Saul Croaker to join his department, should she ever tire of politics. She had all the options she had dreamed of and feared she’d never have when she had become Harry’s retainer so long ago.

But today, she simply wanted to celebrate. With her friends, and with Harry.

They had earned it.

*****

The End.


End file.
